The New Owner of the Cottage — “We’ll Be Living at Your Cottage All Summer,” Announced My Brother.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 13 minViews 4

Mark, were going to stay at your cottage all summer, my brother announced, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I felt my blood boil. Enough with these uninvited guests, I muttered under my breath. Its about time they were shown the door.

When I pulled the bags of plants out of the boot, a familiar sense of calm settled over me. My little green havenmy halfacre of peacewas finally in sight. But something was off. From beyond the fence came the faint thump of popmusic, and at the gate my heart stopped. The lock was brokenwell, more like ripped out with the meat it was clamped onto.

What on earth? I grumbled, shoving the gate open.

What I saw looked like a scene from a gardenhorror movie. Sophie, Marks wife and selfappointed queen of anyones lounge chairs, was sprawled across my hammock, a pink drink in one hand and a phone in the other. She was wearing the same plush bathrobe my colleague had given me for my fortyfifth birthday. My BBQ was sputtering and sending up little puffs of smoke.

Igor! my voice rang out, and I swear the blossoms on the nearest apple tree seemed to tremble.

Mark emerged from the house, clutching my pruning shears. His Tshirt, emblazoned with Beer and Hugs stretched tightly over his belly.

Oh, Tonya! he grinned, as if breaking into someones property were a perfectly normal thing. We thought wed surprise you.

You broke the lock? I lowered the bags slowly onto the grass.

Well, you know it just gave way, Igor scratched his head. It sort of fell apart on its own.

Out of the hedges sprang a teenage boy in bright orange shorts.

Auntie Tonya! Got a net? Were going to catch lizards this evening! he shouted.

I squinted. That was Tommy, the oldest of my nephews. Or maybe Harry? I always mix them up.

You broke my house? I said each word deliberately, like one of those angermanagement courses.

Sophie, dear, you finally decided to get up, she said, finally pulling herself out of the hammock. Her robe slipped, revealing tanned legs.

We thought wed breathe a little life into the place without you, she chirped.

Youre in my robe, I hissed through clenched teeth.

Its so soft! she cooed, patting the lapel like it were a mink coat. Whys it hanging? You should be wearing it, not just flaunting it!

From the back of the house, through an open window, came a clatter of books falling.

My Agatha Christie collection is under attack! I recognized the sound instantly.

Its just the kids, Igor grimaced. They built a little fort out of the books. Very symbolic, actually.

Symbolic? I raised an eyebrow. You know whats also symbolic? The fact that I asked you not to come without meespecially after you burnt my shed last summer!

The candle fell on its own, we were having a romantic evening! Igor protested. And that was ages ago. Weve all grown up!

Sophie nodded. Ive been dabbling in psychology these days. Your sibling rivalry is just a echo of childhood wounds.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Nothing changed. I counted to twenty.

Pack up and leave, I said as calmly as I could. Right now.

But we just arrived! Igor shouted. And the meat

Leave the meat and go, I snapped, turning toward the car. And make sure you dont accidentally take my silver forks.

Our forks are yours now! Igor yelled after me. Theyre not even real metal!

I slipped into the drivers seat, started the engine, my hands shaking with anger.

—

After that chaotic sendoff I poured myself a strong cup of tea with a biscuit, and let the tears flow. Seven years Id saved every penny to buy my dream cottage, planted hydrangeas, sipped coffee from my grans china, and worked the vegetable beds. It was *my* place, not our place with exhusband Vadik, not a family spotjust mine. Full stop.

My phone buzzed. Love, its Mum, said Galina, my mother, the selfdeclared family therapist with a doctorate in keeping the peace. Whats this about you and your brother?

I sighed. Mum, they smashed my house.

Mightve just been a sticky lock, dear, she suggested. Maybe it wasnt closing properly.

It was completely broken, I snapped, fighting the urge to bang my head on the kitchen table. The latch was in pieces.

Mum, look, I tried to keep my voice even, the lock was totally busted.

Her tone softened a bit. Your brothers your only real kin, love. Hes struggling, isnt he? Hes your brother, the last person who really gets you.

Im an atheist if that makes him a soulmate, I muttered. Theyve turned my garden into a battlefield, my books into forts, and Sophies strolling around in my robe like she owns the place!

Hes just a kid, theyll be fine, Mum said. Theyre twelve, after alljust little rascals.

She sighed again. Alright, I get it. You dont like your nephews, you dont like your brother, you dont like me either.

I hung up, realizing Moms classic move: when facts dont win, she leans on guilt.

Im going to bed, I whispered, exhausted. Work tomorrow.

Think about it, love, she coaxed. Theyre family. Doesnt it bother you?

I hit mute and flopped onto the sofa, wondering what more Mark could possibly do to make Mum finally take my side.

—

Mark didnt back down. He texted, How about we spend the whole summer at the cottage? Sophie will love it, the kids will have a blast.

I poured a cup of black coffee, no sugar, to feel the bitterness fully. All summer? The whole three months? I thought. I almost called Mark to tell him exactly what I thought of his plan.

Calm down, Tonya, I said out loud to myself. Youre an adult, you can handle this.

I stared at my reflection, nodded, and dialed.

Mark, youre serious about staying the entire summer? I asked as soon as he answered.

Why not? he said, his voice as relaxed as if he were lying in his own lounge chairmy lounge chair!

Youre not opposed, are you? Youre being nice.

Im nice, but not stupid, I replied. This is my cottage.

Honestly, its a bit odd, Mark said, chuckling. Were just looking after the place for you.

You guarded the roses when Sophie cut them for a friend, remember?

And? he replied, genuinely surprised. Her friend was happy.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, counted to ten, then to a hundred. Nothing helped.

Sophie wants to tell you something! Mark added cheerfully.

The line crackled.

Tonya! Sophie sang, her voice as sugary as a TV advert. The kids love your cottage, the fresh air is great for them. Be a good aunt, will you?

Sweetheart, I said calmly, this is private property. Youre here without permission. If youd asked, maybe Id have let you stay.

See? If Id said yes, everything would be fine.

I realised talking to her was pointless.

Fine then, I said, trying to sound relaxed. Enjoy yourselves.

Tonya, are you upset? Mark asked, reappearing on the line.

No, I replied with a smile he couldnt see. Im going to sort this out.

—

The real estate office smelled of stale coffee and desperationmostly my own. A polished lady across the desk was scrolling through photos of my cottage on a tablet.

Are you sure you want to sell? she asked, eyes fixed on me. Theres a good market for properties like this right now.

Absolutely, I nodded, almost hurting my neck in the enthusiasm. The sooner, the better.

She raised an eyebrow. In a hurry?

Im shedding excess weight, I said with a wry grin. New goals, you know. Likegetting rid of a brother from my life. I thought that thought quietly.

She smiled back. The propertys solid. I already have a potential buyer.

I breathed a sigh of reliefeverything was falling into place.

The buyer was a gentleman named Alan Whitaker, about fifty, with a silvergray hair that shone like a billiard ball and eyes that could cool even the hottest summer day. He looked at the photos, asked three practical questions, and then simply said, Ill take it.

Dont you want to see the place in person? I asked, a hint of surprise.

I trust the pictures, he shrugged. And your honesty.

I hesitated a moment. Well sometimes my relatives turn up unannounced.

Is that a problem? his expression didnt change.

Its not a legal issue, I said, shaking my head. Just might be a bit awkward.

It doesnt matter to me, he replied. Im buying the land, not the visitors. When can we sign?

We arranged for the coming Saturday. That was the day Mark had planned a massive BBQ for the whole neighbourhood.

He hadnt told merumour had travelled via Mum. He was probably hoping to break the lock again and pull some surprise.

Oh well, brother, lets see who gets the last laugh!

—

When we drove up, the cottage buzzed like a beehive. Neighbours cars, an inflatable pool on the lawn, music, grills, childrens shriekspure summer chaos.

Is it always like this? Alan asked, stepping out of his black SUV.

Only when Mark shows up, I sighed.

We walked through the gate and the first person we saw was Sophie, emerging from the house with a massive bowl of salad.

Tonya! she cried. Weve been waiting for you!

My plans have changed, I said, smiling. Meet Alan Whitaker, the new owner, and Victor Hughes, the solicitor.

Pleasure! Sophie beamed. Are you… friends of Tonya? Or

She winked suggestively.

Something like that?

Im the new owner, Alan said calmly.

Sophie froze, salad bowl in hand. Owner? What does that even mean?

Victor, the solicitor, explained, Mrs. Clarke has sold the cottage to Mr. Whitaker. Here are the documents.

He tapped the folder. But how Sophie

From my own BBQyes, my BBQMark burst out, apron on, skewer in hand, looking like the king of the grill.

Tonya! he shouted, delighted. We thought youd thrown us out!

Id throw you out if I could, I muttered.

Mark, Tonya sold the cottage! Sophie blurted.

Mark froze, skewer midair. What?

I sold it, I said slowly, clearly. Alan Whitaker is the new owner. Victor is here to formalise everything.

I braced for a scream, an accusation, a fight. Instead Mark lowered his arms and asked quietly, Why?

The question caught me offguard.

Because you took over my home without asking, I replied. Because you assume everything thats mine is automatically yours. Im fed up. Its easier to get rid of this cottage than deal with the drama.

What now? Mark asked, eyes downcast.

You pack your things and leave, Alan interjected. Right now. This is private property.

But we were planning to spend the whole summer here! Sophie protested. We even have a tent!

Take it with you, Alan said. I dont like unexpected guests.

Mark tossed his apron onto the grass. It was a cursed trap anyway! Driving here, digging in the flowerbeds Normal folks fly off to Cyprus, not muck about in the garden!

Fine then, I said. Go to Cyprus.

Youre youre cruel! Mark yelled, looking for words. Its our family nest!

From where? I crossed my arms. I bought this place with my own savings. Your contribution was a snide, whats a cottage for?

Sophie grabbed Marks elbow. Lets go. Its clear now.

She turned to me, eyes glittering. Youll regret this, Tonya.

I doubt it, I replied, smiling. At least I wont have to watch you turn my garden into a battlefield.

Just then the nephews rushed out, followed by a couple of neighborhood kids.

Aunt Tonya! We were bouncing on the sofa like a trampoline! shouted Harry.

The sofa?! I gasped. Have you lost your minds?

Enough, Alan said, pulling out his phone. Im calling the police. You have half an hour to pack up and leave.

He dialed, a smug look on his face. The fear in Marks and Sophies eyes was my longawaited reward.

—

Tonya, love, how are you? Mum asked, sitting across the kitchen table, eyes searching mine. No regrets?

Not a single one, I said honestly.

Hes still angry, isnt he? she sighed.

Hell get over it, I shrugged. Hes an expert at making excuses.

Two months after the sale, Mark hadnt called, and I hadnt called him. It was probably the longest silence between us since he learned to talk and started asking me why the skys blue and where babies come from.

Hes still your brother, Mum said, a hint of lingering hope in her voice.

I know, I replied. Ill always be his sister, but that doesnt mean I have to put up with everything he does.

She sipped her tea, quiet.

What will you do with the money from the cottage? she asked.

Still deciding, I said. Put it in a savings account or maybe treat myself somewhere. No need for grand gestures.

Actually, Id already spent it on a brandnew cottage up in the Lake District, already starting to shape the garden. I wasnt about to tell Mum where it was.

One thing Ive learned: whenever something good is in your life, therell always be someone who wants to ruin it. Im not going to let that happen again.

You Just Don’t Realise What Happiness Is — Half a million quid? — Carina stared at the notification on her phone, rereading it three times before the numbers made any sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dmitry was slouched on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not bothering to look up. — Oh, that… Yeah, just a bit, for Mum’s new kitchen. You know her pipes leak, the floor’s warped, and the wallpaper’s peeling… — Wait. — Carina sank onto the armchair; her legs wouldn’t keep her up. — You took out a loan. Half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without saying a word to me? Dmitry finally tore himself from his phone, genuine confusion on his face, as if she’d asked something utterly normal. — Carina, it’s Mum. She’s on her own, her pension’s rubbish. Who else is going to help? — You could have talked to me! — Carina found herself shouting, unable to stop. — Asked my opinion? At least warned me? — You’d just argue — Dmitry shrugged — and Mum needed it fast. Four years. Four years tolerating this woman: the nightly calls to check what Dima had for tea, the unannounced visits criticising the flat’s cleanliness, the family dinners where Carina always ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a drama out of nothing, Dmitry said, calm as ever. — We’ll cope. Pay off quick, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears spilled over as Carina wiped them away, smudging mascara down her cheeks. — Family? Am I—family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she dumped my stuff out of the guest room because she couldn’t “sleep among strangers’ clutter”? Or when, on my birthday, you both left to buy her a new fridge? — All small things — Dmitry waved a hand. — You’re tired, that’s all. You need a break. She looked at this man — tall, gentle features, the dimples she’d once found charming. Now he seemed little more than a thirty-year-old child, unable to cut the cord. — We’ll manage — he repeated, mantra-like. — Love conquers all. Carina got up and left for the bedroom. Her two big duffel bags were still on the top shelf from when she first moved in. She dragged them down, threw them onto the bed, and began opening drawers. Dmitry appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, first bag crammed full. — What are you doing? Carina, don’t be silly. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer. Methodically stacked jumpers, jeans, underwear. Picked the jewellery box off the shelf — gifts from friends and family, nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s in Manchester! Zipped up the second bag. Checked her handbag — passport, cards, keys to her mum’s place, just in case. — Carina, say something! You can’t leave me. I love you! She held his gaze for a long moment. Then lifted the bags and walked out. …Next morning, Carina was in the registry office queue, divorce papers clutched tight. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds sagged over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange peace. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two that night. Carina jolted awake on her friend Lena’s sofa, confused about where she was. — We need to talk — Dmitry’s breath was quick, words tumbling. — I understand now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Carina, I can’t live without you. You’re the meaning of my life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one— long, overflowing with tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, who knows what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being silly.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week on, he started turning up outside her office. Carina would leave for lunch and spot his familiar shape by the coffee shack across the road. Heading for the Tube after work, she’d see him shadowing her from the other side of the street. — Just passing by — Dmitry would smile when challenged. — Missed you, wanted to see you. One evening at Lena’s, the doorbell buzzed. Carina, expecting the pizza delivery, didn’t look through the peephole. Standing there was Dmitry, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — One more chance — he whispered. — That’s all I ask. She closed the door, silent. He stood outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — like people live with a dull ache. Not reading messages, not answering unknown calls, not turning around in the street. Switched jobs to remote working in a new firm, moved to a quiet outer suburb where Dmitry would never “accidentally” show up. Divorce went through three months later. Carina exited the court holding the official papers, bursting into tears on the steps — not out of grief, but relief. At first, freedom was terrifying in its emptiness. She’d always checked every decision with someone, even though that someone did whatever he liked anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she wanted, not caring whether Yelena Viktorovna approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch that sort of thing.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — an old dream, dismissed by Dmitry as “a waste of money.” Started yoga at dawn, before the city woke. Spent a weekend in Brighton, alone, wandering the lanes, tasting fudge, eating chips on the pier. Six months later, the calls stopped. The messages too. Carina waited for something else to go wrong, but as months passed she dared to relax. Landed a job at a vibrant marketing agency — bright office, young team, creative work. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at the office Christmas party, coaxed there by her colleague Maddy. — This is our head developer — Maddy introduced a tall, bespectacled bloke. — Andrew, this is Carina from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, but gentle. His smile was effortless, not trying to impress. — You avoiding karaoke too? — he nodded toward the HR manager butchering “Wonderwall” on stage. — Saving my nerves — Carina grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, and the strangeness of life. Andrew listened more than he talked. Asked questions and waited for answers, never lecturing or instructing. When he heard she’d been divorced, he just nodded and changed the topic. …Within six months they’d moved in together, choosing a flat in town — small, sunny, high ceilings and a view of a tranquil courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Carina asked as they checked it before signing the lease. — Shall we look at a few more? — Do you like it? — Andrew replied. — Yes, I love it. — Then let’s take it. Such little things — having her opinion heard — mattered more than any big talk of love. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, sky streaked pink and gold. Opened a tiny box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you’re willing to put up with my snoring and terrible taste in coffee. Carina laughed through tears, and nodded. …That May evening began as usual. Andrew stayed late at the office — impossible deadline, some code gone haywire. Carina made pasta, humming with the radio, when the buzzer rang: sharp, urgent, demanding. She peered through the spyhole — and recoiled. Dmitry was outside. Pallid, tired eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence, and now here he was. — Carina, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re in! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dmitry shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook — he was trying to force it. Carina pressed her back against it, braced her feet. — Go away! — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice shrilled. — You were mine, you will be! I waited two years for this! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s never over! — another slam, Carina barely keeping the door shut. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t realise what happiness is! Open up, let’s talk! She could see his face twisted in the spyhole — wild, possessed. Not the man she’d once shared a bed with. She dialled 999. — Dmitry! One call and the police are here. Leave. Now. He froze. A few moments of silence. Then swiftly turned and stomped downstairs. The front door slammed below. Carina slid to the floor, ears ringing. Half an hour later she managed to stand and call Andrew. The next day, she filed a police report. The community officer — an older gent with a grey moustache — took it all down, nodded. — We’ll sort it. Have a word. Whatever he said to Dmitry, Carina never discovered. But her ex never appeared or contacted her again. No calls, no messages, no shadow on her doorstep. …They held their wedding in early June, at a cosy country restaurant — twenty close friends, no fuss, no awkward in-laws demanding traditions. Carina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, squeezing his warm hands in hers. Outside, birch trees whispered, the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass drifted in. — Do you… — the officiant began. — I do — Carina cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring onto her finger — slim gold band, engraved inside. Three words: “Always with you.” She looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not a haunted stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and loved. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…

Dandelion Jam After a snowy but gentle winter with no harsh frosts, the cold has grown tiresome and the longing for green leaves, colourful blossoms, and the chance to cast off heavy coats fills the air. Spring arrives in a small English town, and Tessa, who has lived in her cosy five-storey flat for years, awaits nature’s awakening. Looking down from her third-floor window, Tessa muses, “With these warm spring days, the town feels alive after its long winter slumber. Even the cars grumble differently and the local market has new energy. Bright jackets and coats everywhere, and the birds wake us before our alarms. Ah, spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better…” Nowadays, Tessa shares her flat with her granddaughter Violet, a fourth-year student at the primary school. Violet’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, leaving their daughter in Tessa’s care. “Mum, we trust you to look after our Violet. We know she’ll be happy with you,” Tessa’s daughter said when they left. “Of course I’ll take care of her—she’ll keep me company in retirement. Off you go, we’ll be fine,” Tessa replied. “Hurrah, Granny! Now we’ll really live – we’ll go to the park all the time. Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time,” Violet cheered. After breakfast and seeing Violet off to school, Tessa loses track of the morning in a flurry of chores. “I’ll pop to the shop before Violet gets home from school—I promised her something sweet for her good grades,” she thinks, grabbing her shopping bag. Outside, the neighbourhood bench is already occupied by two locals—Mrs. Simmons, an ageless woman of at least seventy (or perhaps more, as she keeps her birth year secret), living alone in a ground-floor flat, and Mrs. Valentina, seventy-five, vivacious, well-read, and a joyful contrast to the ever-complaining Mrs. Simmons. As soon as the sun returns and the snow melts, this bench is rarely empty—Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Valentina are regulars, armed with cushions to ward off the lingering chill, busy keeping tabs on the world around them. Tessa sometimes joins them to chat about news, magazine stories, or television shows, with Mrs. Simmons inevitably remarking on her blood pressure. “Morning ladies,” Tessa greets them cheerfully. “On duty already?” “Morning, Tess. Duty calls, otherwise we’d get detention,” Mrs. Simmons replies, eyeing Tessa’s bag. “Off to the shops?” “Just for a treat before Violet gets back from school,” Tessa says, moving on. The day passes with familiar rhythm—school pick-up, lunch, homework, and chores. Violet heads to her dance class, a passion she’s followed for six years, and Tessa beams with pride for her talented granddaughter. Tessa waits on the bench for Violet’s return, joined by Mr. George Ilchester from the second floor. “Lonely out here?” he asks. “How could I be lonely on a day like this? Spring is gorgeous,” Tessa replies. They chat about the sunshine, birdsong, and golden coltsfoot flowers, bright as tiny suns. Suddenly, Violet surprises them, leaping onto Tessa’s neck with a playful bark. “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tessa laughs. “Plenty of time before that!” George Ilchester jokes. Tessa tempts Violet inside with grated carrots and sugar, her favourite meatballs waiting. Mr. Ilchester, enticed by the talk of food, heads home too, promising a later stroll. That evening, Tessa returns to the bench. Mr. Ilchester waits, the regular ladies gone to dinner. From that night, their friendship grows—they walk to the park, read newspapers, swap recipes and stories, and share memories. George Ilchester has known hardship; widowed young, he raised his daughter Vera alone, juggling two jobs. As Vera grew and moved away, visits became rare, her affection cold. Divorce left her raising a son alone. “Tess, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Just called out of the blue…” George confides. “Strange, we haven’t spoken in years.” “Maybe she misses you. In time, family means more,” Tessa suggests. Vera’s visit is brief and businesslike. She pressures George to sell his flat and move in with her, claiming he doesn’t need so much space. George refuses, uncomfortable with leaving his home for a brisk, joyless household. Vera goes to Tessa, asking her to persuade George to sell. Upon receiving a gentle refusal, Vera grows furious, accusing Tessa of wanting the flat for herself—a spiteful tirade about Tessa and George together, sharing walks and dandelion lore, and she storms out. Tessa feels embarrassed, worried the neighbours heard Vera’s accusations, and avoids George after Vera’s departure. But life has its way of mending fences. Returning from the shop, Tessa finds George by the door, weaving a dandelion crown. “Tessa, don’t run—I need to say sorry for Vera,” he says quietly. “She said awful things, but I’ll always be here for my grandson. Have this dandelion wreath—and you must try my dandelion jam, it’s delicious and healthy. Brilliant in salads too,” he smiles. They make a salad together and enjoy tea with dandelion jam, which Tessa finds utterly delightful. That evening, they return to the park with their favourite magazine, reading on the bench beneath the old English lime tree, losing themselves in conversation, content together. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you happiness always!