When Family Turns Foreign
“Liz, Jeremy rang,” William said as he stepped into the kitchen. “He and Sarah are coming on Saturday—just the two of them. Wants to talk.”
“Talk, of course,” Elizabeth scoffed. “About the cottage, no doubt. Brace yourself—this’ll be ‘fair and square,’ their way.”
It had been little over two months since Aunt Margaret passed. She’d left William and Elizabeth a two-bedroom flat in the city centre and a cottage near Brighton. For four years, they’d cared for her—brought her meals, took her to doctor appointments, even sent her to convalesce by the seaside twice. The others—Jeremy and Sarah—only took. Spent summers at the cottage, yet whenever Margaret needed a ride there, they were always “too busy.”
Saturday at four, Jeremy and Sarah stood at the door. Their greetings were curt, no smiles. They settled in the sitting room, and Jeremy cut straight to it.
“We’re here about the cottage. You got the flat—fine. But the cottage… We’ve kept an eye on it. Seems only fair you let us have it.”
“You didn’t keep an eye,” Elizabeth said calmly. “You stayed in summer. When Aunt Margaret was ill, neither of you so much as called.”
“Stay out of it,” Sarah muttered.
“Hardly. I’m in the will too. And I know exactly who visited and how often. In four years, you came three times. Once for cucumbers, once to dump the kids, once for tea. That’s all.”
“So what? We’re family!” Sarah snapped. “Now what, you’re selling it?”
“Yes,” William said. “We’ll tidy it up and put it on the market.”
“Fine, sod off then!” Jeremy growled. “Don’t come crying when you’ve no one left!”
The next day, the phone rang.
“What the hell are you playing at?” Jeremy shouted. “We went up with the boy today, and you’ve changed the locks!”
“Naturally. The gate and front door too. Should’ve called ahead. We’ll drive down Saturday—collect your things. Not without us, though.”
“You rotten—”
William hung up, unruffled. Elizabeth barely blinked.
“Clever, changing the locks. If you hadn’t, there’d be nothing left.”
They sold the cottage. Sold their old flat too. Bought a new three-bedder in a seafront estate—ten minutes by car to the beach. Emily kept the city flat while at university. William took a job at the docks; Elizabeth taught at a grammar school. Life grew quiet.
Not for long. By March, the phone wouldn’t stop. “Family” suddenly remembered William. First, it was Sarah.
“Right, we’re coming down in July. No cottage now, but we need a break. We’re not strangers!”
“You’d be guests. And we didn’t invite you.”
“You seen Brighton rental prices?!”
“No. But if it’s dear, pick another town. Or a lake. We’re not hosting.”
“Elizabeth’s parents stayed with you!”
“Parents. Not in-laws with kids and grandkids in tow.”
“You’ll regret this. One day you’ll need help—and no one’ll come!”
“Worry not. Between May and September, everyone remembers us. But November? February? Silence.”
That silence—William and Elizabeth treasured it most.
