“Agatha, for heaven’s sake, you’ve already got four houses—what do you need another for? Where would Mother and I go, out onto the street?” I shouted at my sister when I learned she meant to claim our family home. This is the tale of how her greed nearly left Mother and me without a roof over our heads, and how I fought to keep our rightful place beneath it.
**The Family Home and Its Legacy**
Our family had always lived in a spacious three-bedroom flat in the heart of London. My parents were granted it in the post-war years, and it became our cherished nest. Here, my sister and I grew up; here, Mother raised us alone after Father passed. The flat was aged but grand, with high ceilings and tall windows. Mother and I still lived there, though the walls had long begged for fresh paper and paint.
My elder sister, Agatha, had moved away years ago. She’d married well—her husband was a merchant of some fortune—and over the years, they’d amassed a tidy sum. Agatha already owned four properties: two let out to tenants, one bought for her son, and the fourth where she dwelled with her husband. I never envied her wealth—indeed, I was glad for her good fortune. But then she declared she meant to take our family home for herself.
**”It’s My Inheritance”**
It began when Agatha came to visit. Over tea, she broached the subject. “Mother, this place is too much for you now—the stairs are steep, the lift is ancient. Let’s sell it, and I’ll find you and Eloise somewhere smaller,” she said. I was stunned. “Sell it? And where would we live?” Agatha replied coolly that it was “her inheritance” and she had a right to her share. The deed named the three of us—Mother, her, and me—and she wanted what was hers.
I was aghast. First, Mother was still alive—what inheritance? Second, Agatha knew full well we had nowhere else to go, and her idea of “somewhere smaller” sounded like a cramped boarding house. “Agatha, you’ve four houses already,” I said. “Why take this one? Would you see Mother and me turned out?” She prattled on about property being a “sound investment,” but I saw plainly it wasn’t just the money—she wanted it all for herself.
**Mother’s Anguish and the Quarrel**
Mother, hearing our row, was heartsick. She’d always been fair to us both, but even she could not abide this. “Agatha, have you no shame?” she said. “This is our home. I’ve spent my life within these walls.” But Agatha held firm. “I don’t wish to quarrel, but it’s my right. If we don’t sell, I’ll take it to court for my share.”
I could scarcely believe my sister would sink so low. We’d never been close, but I never thought her capable of such cruelty. I pleaded, reminding her Mother and I couldn’t afford another home—my teacher’s wages and Mother’s pension wouldn’t stretch so far. Agatha only waved me off. “You’ll think of something.”
**What Now?**
Now I’m at my wits’ end. To sue my own sister would cost more than I have, and Mother couldn’t bear the strain. Yet I won’t surrender our home. I offered to buy Agatha’s share, but she named a price I couldn’t scrape together in ten years. Mother weeps, swearing she’d rather die than leave the house she loves.
I don’t know the way forward. Should I speak to Agatha again, try to rouse her conscience? Or must I brace for a courtroom battle? If any of you have faced such strife within your family, tell me—how did you mend it? How do I keep my home without losing my kin? Advise me, for I’m sorely in need of wisdom.
