Arthur dropped by his mother’s without warning.
“Son, hello! Why didn’t you call?” Evelyn gasped, startled to see him at the door.
“I was nearby, thought I’d pop in,” Arthur shrugged.
“Come in, at least let me put the kettle on,” she urged.
He stepped into the kitchen, sinking into a chair. Something restless flickered behind his eyes.
“Arthur, love, what’s wrong?” Evelyn pressed.
“Mum, Dad just messaged me…” he murmured, sliding his phone across the table.
She glanced at the screen—then froze. The words turned her veins to ice.
*”Son, we need to talk. Come round Saturday. Bring your brothers. It’s about the will. Your father.”*
Years ago, Evelyn had arrived at work in tears. Colleagues scrambled to understand until she wiped her cheeks and spat:
“My husband traded us in for some tart half his age.”
“You’ve been married thirty years! Who’d have thought—”
“Not me. He said I stopped being a woman to him ages ago. Just a housemate. A mother. Not a wife. Not love. Wanted a divorce.”
“Maybe you smothered him? Men hate that—”
“Smothered him? I barely had time to breathe—kids, job, everything on me! He was a grown man! Just… had a roving eye. Came crawling back whenever he was skint. Then he lands that consultancy gig and suddenly remembers he ‘needs passion’.”
After the divorce, he’d swanned off with the junior secretary. Flings, fast cars, holidays in Spain. Then… like some tawdry soap opera. Work dried up, money vanished, and his ‘true love’ upgraded before the paperwork was cold.
“We chucked your crap in the skip,” her new bloke sneered when Evelyn phoned. “Fetch it before bin day.”
Rupert—broke, humiliated—slunk back to his elderly mother’s council flat. There he stayed. No family, no savings, just bitterness. He tried dating, but the women never pleased his mum. She turned sour, possessive. So he rotted alone.
Meanwhile, his sons grew. Arthur—steady, reliable. Brickie. Married young, kids by twenty-five. Thomas—cheeky, kind. Med school, married a classmate. Youngest, William? Single, content. “Why complicate things?” he’d grin.
Now their father reappeared like a bad penny. The brothers went, grudgingly. The flat reeked of damp and defeat. Rupert—grey, shrunken—seemed decades older.
“Sit,” he croaked. “No point standing. Your mum’s gone. I’ve got no one. Realised I’m worthless. But you… my blood. My heirs. The flat’s yours. Don’t abandon me, and when I’m gone, it’s split. Equal shares. Or sort it between you…”
They exchanged glances. Touched? That word didn’t cover it. Pity twisting their guts, they promised to consider it. That evening at Evelyn’s, the truth spilled out—then the storm broke.
“You’ll give me your shares, yeah?” Arthur blurted. “Kids, mortgage—I need it more.”
“Hold on,” Thomas glowered. “We’re trying for a baby. Rent’s killing us. I’d sell my bit for a deposit.”
“What, and I get nothing ’cause I’m single?” William snapped. “My share’s mine. Drink it, burn it—my choice!”
Voices rose to a din. Evelyn watched, heart cracking, as her once-close boys turned to snarling strangers over bricks and mortar.
“Enough!” she shrieked. “He’s not even cold! And you’re at each other’s throats!”
“Sorry, Mum—” Arthur wilted.
“We’ll manage,” Thomas muttered.
“Wasn’t about the money,” William mumbled. “Just felt… unwanted.”
Then Evelyn spoke.
“Right. I’ll downsize. Split the difference between you. No favourites.”
“Mum!” they cried in unison. “You love this house! We’ll sort it!”
Evelyn wept—not from sorrow, but relief. Her boys were different, yet their hearts beat as one. And that—that was the fight of her life.
Tonight, at last, she won.
