When Family Turns Strange
“Emily, it was George on the phone,” Michael said, stepping into the kitchen. “He and Lucy are coming this Saturday. Just the two of them. Says he wants to talk.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Emily scoffed. “About the cottage, no doubt. Brace yourself—it’ll be a ‘fair family redistribution.’”
It had been just over two months since Aunt Beatrice passed. She’d left Michael and Emily a two-bedroom flat in Kensington and a cottage near Brighton. For four years, they’d cared for her—brought groceries, took her to doctors, even sent her to a spa retreat twice. The others—George and Lucy—only took. Spent summers at the cottage, but whenever Beatrice asked for help, they were always “too busy.”
At four on Saturday, George and Lucy stood at the door. Their greetings were stiff, no warmth in their voices. They settled in the sitting room, and George cut straight to it.
“It’s about the cottage. You got the flat—fine. But the cottage… We looked after it. Fair’s fair—it should go to us.”
“You didn’t look after anything,” Emily said calmly. “You stayed there in summer. When Aunt Beatrice was ill, not one of you even called.”
“Stay out of it,” Lucy hissed.
“Why should I? I was in the will too. And I know exactly who visited and how often. In four years, you came three times. Once for tomatoes, once to drag your kids along, and once for tea. That’s it.”
“So what? We’re family!” Lucy snapped. “You’re not seriously going to sell it?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “We’ll tidy it up and list it.”
“Well, good riddance!” George muttered. “Don’t cry when you’re left with no one!”
The next day, the phone rang.
“What the hell is this?!” George shouted. “We went to the cottage with the kids, and the locks are changed!”
“Of course. The gates too, and the front door. You should’ve called ahead. We’ll meet you there Saturday—collect your things. But not without us.”
“You absolute—”
Michael hung up, unruffled. Emily barely blinked.
“Smart, 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-bedroom in a seaside estate—ten minutes by car to the beach. Sophie kept the Kensington flat while at uni. Michael took a job at the docks; Emily taught at a grammar school. Life settled into peace.
But not for long. By March, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. “Family” had suddenly remembered Michael existed. Lucy was first.
“Right, so we’re coming down in July. We’ve no place to stay now, and we need a holiday. We’re not strangers!”
“You’re guests. And we didn’t invite you.”
“Have you seen Brighton rents?!”
“No. But if it’s too dear, pick a different town. Or a lake. We’re not hosting.”
“Emily’s parents visited you!”
“Parents. Not in-laws with kids and grandkids in tow.”
“You’ll regret this. One day you’ll need help—and no one will come!”
“Don’t fret. From May to September, everyone remembers us. But November? February? Silence.”
And that silence—Michael and Emily cherished it most of all.
