My relatives have long been waiting for the day I finally depart this world, already scheming about inheriting my flat. I have taken steps to safeguard everything well in advance.
I happen to be sixty years old now, and I have lived alone ever since. I have no children and no husband, though I once was married. At twentyfive I wed, driven by love.
That marriage collapsed when my husband, Thomas, was unfaithful. He brought his lover into our home, something I could not endure. I packed my belongings and moved back in with my parents. Barely two months after the divorce I learned I was pregnant.
Honestly, I never intended to tell my exhusband. I cut off all contact and resolved to raise the child on my own. When my son, Edward, was born, the doctors delivered a grim verdict: Your baby is very weak, and there is an incurable ailment. He may live only until he is eleven or twelve.
I was at a loss for what to do or where to turn. I breastfed Edward every day and raised him, but a single thought haunted memy child would soon leave this earth.
Edward grew to fifteen. Within a week of his passing, my father, George, also died. I lost two beloved people in rapid succession.
George had left me his spacious flat right in the heart of York. I had spent all those years alone, with few men in my life. I once yearned for another child, yet the fear of history repeating itself kept me from taking any risk. At fortyfive I bought a laptop to keep in touch with the family and to read the news.
When my kin discovered I lived by myself, they began to drop by in shifts, bearing gifts and curiosities. They kept asking whether I had drawn up a will; upon learning I had not, they started to complain about my finances. Some even tried to outmaneuver each other, hoping to appear more respectable in my eyes. I already knew who would inherit my flata dear friend, Samuel, whose daughter Clara has always helped me selflessly.
All they seemed to want was the property. Eventually I cut off contact with them, though that did not stop their meddling.
One day my cousin Harold rang, cheekily asking if I was still breathing and who I intended to leave the flat to. I was so affronted that I barred all my relatives from writing or calling me thereafter.
