The Inheritance
The large, old flat was unusually busy. The doorbell jangled every few minutes, and another relative stepped inside. This time, a broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit walked in, the jacket straining over his protruding stomach.
A pale, plain woman gave him a sour smile, while another man rose from the sofa to greet him.
“Stephen! Didn’t think you’d come,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Sit down, tell us how life’s treated you.”
The woman moved to the far end of the sofa, making room for the brothers.
*Is that really Ian’s wife? He had plenty of girls chasing him, and he ends up with… this one.* Stephen couldn’t find the right word.
The doorbell rang again. All three turned their heads toward the entrance. They had been waiting for one last person. A tall man in black trousers and a dark blue jumper stepped into the room, the crisp white shirt beneath making him look sharper.
Boris greeted them curtly, glanced around, and sank into a worn-out armchair in the opposite corner.
*He’s turned into quite the dandy,* Stephen thought. He recognised him instantly, though they hadn’t seen each other in thirty years. Now all three brothers—the three heirs—were gathered. Like vultures circling carrion. Stephen had hoped no one else would come, especially not Boris.
The brothers had received invitations to bid farewell to Aunt Anne. That’s precisely what the telegram had said—”to bid farewell”—with the address included, just in case they’d forgotten.
Stephen had lived in another city with his family for years. A good job, a house, a car, two daughters—one already with a grandchild. He didn’t really need his aunt’s inheritance. He’d come out of curiosity.
The flat had once seemed enormous. He’d been afraid of the dark corners, the towering clock, the heavy, old-fashioned furniture.
When their father had fallen from scaffolding at a construction site and died, their mother had withered from grief. How could she raise three boys alone? The youngest, Ian, hadn’t even been five. Life had been hard. Then their mother’s elder brother, whom the boys had never heard of before, had arrived. He’d offered to take the two oldest boys for a while, just until she got back on her feet.
He and his wife had no children. The mother would recover and come for them eventually. He gave her money and took the boys away. Loneliness drove her to drink, and she died soon after.
Aunt Anne was strict and distant. She fed them, clothed them, tried to love them. Stephen, the eldest, quickly realised this was his chance to get ahead. He ingratiated himself with his uncle and his wife.
Boris, the middle brother, withdrew. He didn’t want to bond with these new relatives. Unlike Stephen, he hadn’t gone to university after school. Instead, he returned to their parents’ old city, got a job, and studied part-time. Their uncle sent him money at first, but Boris sent it back with a note: *I don’t need it.*
Stephen married in his final year at university and moved to his wife’s family in Manchester. The youngest, Ian, grew up reckless, always chasing fun. *Every family has one,* as they say.
*The flat needs renovating. Then it’ll sell for a good price. And this furniture—proper antique, solid, no one makes things like this now. There’s crystal in the cabinet too. And she must have savings, unless they were wiped out in the nineties…* Stephen caught himself. Not the time for daydreaming.
His eyes kept flicking back to Boris, who sat motionless, legs crossed. Ian murmured with his wife, eyeing the others. *Boris was the black sheep. Ian will blow his share.* Stephen felt he deserved the bulk of the inheritance.
A presentable young woman had let them in—probably Aunt Anne’s carer. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a wheelchair rolled into the room, carrying a hunched old woman. Her head drooped forward, a thick blanket covering her legs.
The young woman positioned the chair so the old lady could see everyone. Against the frail figure, she looked even prettier and younger. The brothers stared, stunned. They hadn’t expected their aunt to still be alive.
Stephen tried calculating her age—well into her eighties. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram had invited them to *bid farewell* to Anne. He’d taken it to mean she’d passed.
He studied her with uneasy fascination—the wrinkled face blotched with age spots, thin grey hair sticking out wildly. Hands twisted by arthritis, veins bulging, rested on the armrests. He struggled to reconcile this frail figure with the proud, upright woman he remembered.
“Anne is happy to see you all,” the carer said brightly.
“At her request, I tracked you down and invited you here. Apologies if my telegram was unclear. Anne wanted to see you all, to settle the inheritance properly and avoid disputes later.”
“Interesting. So our wishes will be considered?” Stephen perked up.
“Not exactly. Let’s have tea. Could you help?” she asked Ian’s wife.
“And who are you?” Stephen cut in.
“This is Vera, my granddaughter,” Anne croaked suddenly.
Stephen gaped, then glanced at Boris, who remained impassive. Ian shifted uncomfortably.
*Ian’s daughter? Another heir. This complicates things. We’d need proof she’s actually related.* Stephen’s eyes bored into Vera’s back.
Once tea was served, only the brothers and their aunt remained.
“Thank you for coming,” she rasped. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Not here for me—here for the money. Well, you’ll each get what you deserve. Just don’t fight at my funeral if the will displeases you.”
“Is there even enough to fight over?” Stephen asked.
“You’ve changed. Boris, I’m glad you came, even if you never liked me. And Ian—still as feckless as ever,” she muttered.
“Old, but not senile.” Her head drooped again, eyes closing. For a moment, Stephen thought she’d fallen asleep. The brothers exchanged silent glances.
Soon, Vera called them for tea. Ian practically bolted for the kitchen, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. Boris and Stephen didn’t move.
“You two never made up?” Anne asked suddenly.
“Never quite happened,” Stephen answered for both.
“You’ve put on weight—that jacket’s about to burst. Living well, then? Why didn’t you bring your wife?”
“Too busy—she’s a headmistress,” Stephen boasted. “Two daughters, both married. One’s given me a grandchild.”
“Brothers should stick together. You’re all I have left. And Vera. I’m leaving her the flat. Don’t glare, Stephen. She’s looked after me for ten years. Because of her, I’ve lived this long. You? Not a single birthday card, not a visit. I tried to stand in for your mother. Didn’t work. Fine, Boris—but you, Stephen? Why never visit?”
Stephen flushed, lost for words.
“There’s the cottage too. Good land, solid house. Remember how you loved it, Boris? And the vintage ’78 Mercedes in the garage. They don’t make them like that anymore. Still runs.”
“No one’s getting short-changed,” she grinned, revealing yellowed but intact teeth. The sight sent a shiver down Stephen’s spine. *She’s tough. Still has her own teeth. Witchy. She’d outlive us all.*
“Vera!” the old woman called.
Vera appeared instantly.
“Tired. Bed,” Anne mumbled.
Only then did Stephen notice the lights were on, darkness outside. The grandfather clock showed nearly ten. It felt like mere hours since he’d arrived—time had slipped away unnoticed.
Vera wheeled Anne out.
*Thought she was dead. Came to say goodbye, and she’s alive.* Stephen shook his head.
Boris said nothing.
“She announced the will—that means she’ll die now, right?” Stephen joked. Boris didn’t smile.
Vera showed them to their rooms. Ian said he’d booked a hotel and left.
Stephen lay awake, listening to strange sounds—footsteps, muttering. Twice, he got up to check the hallway. Empty. A draught whispered through the flat.
Dawn came before he finally slept. He woke late to utter silence. *Just nerves. Shouldn’t have come.* He sighed, pulling on yesterday’s shirt with distaste.
Breakfast was laid out in the kitchen. The coffee was hot. His stomach growled at the sight of food.
*Did Vera do this? Not bad. Too young for me, though. And married…* He sighed, sitting down.
He was on his second cup when the doorbell rang. A short, plump doctor in a white coat entered, followed by Vera.
“Is Anne alright?” Stephen asked, ignored. He followed, but Vera blocked him.
“You can’t go in,” she said, shutting the door in his faceThe will was read, the brothers went their separate ways, and Vera found solace in tending the garden at the cottage, where Boris often visited, though neither dared to speak of the quiet understanding growing between them.
