“You Don’t Have a Family, Just Let Your Sister Have the House—She Needs It More Now,” My Mum Told Me. “It’s Easier for You; Your Sister Has a Big Family, Try to Understand.” “Why Are You So Moody?” My Sister Sat Next to Me on the Sofa, Cradling a Glass of Juice. The Kids Bustled Around the Table, Her Husband Waving a Fork with Cake While Chatting to His Mother-in-Law. “I’m Fine,” I Looked Away. “Just Tired. Work Was a Nightmare Today.” She Smiled, Tucking a Strand of Hair Behind Her Ear. “I’ve Been Meaning to Talk to You—About Dad’s House.” “I’m Listening.” She Leaned in Closer, Dropping Her Voice. “We’ve Been Thinking… Why Do You Two Even Need That House? It’s Just the Two of You and You Have a Flat. We’re Crammed into a Two-Bed Rental with Three Kids. If We Move In—Fresh Air, a Garden, Room for Everyone.” I Stayed Quiet, Watching My Niece Blow Out Her Birthday Candles. Six Years Old—the Eldest of Three. “You Don’t Really Need the House,” She Continued. “It’s Just More Expenses. Leaking Roof, Crooked Fence, Never-Ending Repairs.” “And What Will You Do About That?” I Thought, But Kept It to Myself. “Mum Thinks It’s Sensible Too,” She Added. “We’re Not Asking for a Gift, Just Step Back from Your Share. We’ll Sort It Out Later.” I Nodded, Though Something Tightened Inside. On the Way Home My Husband Drove in Silence. “What’s Going On?” “They Want Me to Give Up My Share of the House.” “You Mean—Give It Away?” “Yes. Apparently They Need It More. And We ‘Have Everything’.” “Everything?” He Smirked. “Our Tiny Flat with a Mortgage?” The Next Day Mum Called. “Have You Thought About It?” “What’s to Think About? Half the House Is Mine.” “You’re Always Talking About Rights,” She Snapped. “What About Family? They Have Three Kids. You’re Alone.” “Our Flat Is Mortgaged. Ten More Years to Pay.” “They Don’t Even Have That.” “I Cared for Dad Those Last Months. The Hospitals, the Prescriptions. My Sister Came Twice.” “You’re the Older One. You Should Understand. You’re Free.” Free. The Word Stung. That Night I Sat in the Kitchen With Tea. “She’s Pushing for It Too?” My Husband Asked. “Yes.” The Next Day I Met a Friend. “When Was the Last Time Your Sister Helped You?” She Asked. I Had No Answer. “Do They Know How Much You’ve Spent on IVF?” “No.” “Almost a Million. And Not One Pregnancy. Still They Think You Have It Easy.” I Decided to Visit the House. I Went Alone. Overgrown Garden. Squeaking Gates. The Smell of Dust and Memories. I Found Dad’s Notebook—Plans for Repairs in His Handwriting. He’d Planned. Time Ran Out. The Apple Tree We’d Planted Together When I Was Little. This House Wasn’t Just Property. It Was Memory. So When Mum Came and Said, “You Don’t Have a Family, It’s Easier for You…” I Didn’t Swallow It Down. “Three Rounds of IVF. Three.” And For the First Time, I Said: “The House Is Mine. I’m Not Giving It Away.” Silence Followed. But It Wasn’t Empty—It Felt Freeing. Spring Came Early. The Neighbour Said, “He Was Just Waiting for You.” I Sat on the Porch, Cradling a Mug of Tea, Dad’s Jumper Around My Shoulders, Apple Tree Before Me. This Was My Home. Not Because I Gave In. But Because It Was My Right.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 1

Youre on your own, you know. Best let your sister have the houseits much harder for her nowadays, Mum declared, wielding her mug of tea like the sceptre of all reason. Things are easier for you. Shes got all those children and a full house! Surely you get that.

Why the long face? my sister quipped, plopping down next to me on the sofa, cradling a glass of orange juice. The children buzzed around the coffee table, while her husband animatedly tried to impress their mother-in-law with a tale, punctuating his sentences with a forkful of Victoria sponge.

Im fine, I said, averting my gaze. Just knackered. Work was an absolute shambles today.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and grinned. Been meaning to chat. Its about Dads old house.

Go on.

She edged a bit nearer and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper.

Weve been thinking What do you and your husband need with that house, really? Youre just the two of you, youve got your flat. Meanwhile, were five crammed in a rented two-bed, climbing over each other for air. If we moved inlush garden, fresh air, room for everyone.

I didnt say a word, watching my eldest niece blow out her cake candles. Six already, the ringleader of the household circus.

Honestly, its not like you actually need the place, she continued. Its just a drain for you: leaky roof, wobbly fence, endless repairs.

And how, exactly, will you fix all that? I wondered silently. Still, I bit my tongue.

Mum thinks its sensible too, she added, as though it clinched it all. Were not asking for a hand-outjust give up your half. Well sort the rest out between us.

I nodded, though something twisted uncomfortably inside.

On the drive home, my husband was unusually quiet behind the wheel.

What happened?

They want me to give up my share of Dads house.

As in just hand it over?

Yep. Say they need it more, and weve already got everything.

Everything? he scoffed, bitterly amused. You mean our one-bed palace with the mortgage shackles?

Next day the phone rang. Mum.

Have you thought it over?

Nothing much to think about, Mum. That house is half mine.

Youre always harping on about your rights, she sighed. But what about family, eh? Theyve got three children. Youre just, well, you know

Our flat is on a mortgage for another ten years, Mum.

They dont even have that.

I was the one looking after Dad his last months. Ferrying him to appointments, managing his pills. My dear sister popped by all of twice.

Well, youre the eldest. Ought to understand. Youve got all this freedom.

Freedom. I almost laughed. Or choked.

That evening I nursed a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

Is your mum pushing for it, too? my husband asked.

She is.

Next day, I met a friend for a gossip.

When did your sister last lift a finger to help you? she asked, peering over her cappuccino.

Couldnt think of an answer.

Do they know how much you spent on IVF? she pressed.

No.

Nearly a hundred grand, wasnt it? And still, no luck. Yet they think lifes a breeze for you.

Something in me snapped. I decided to visit the house.

I went alone.

The garden was an overgrown tangle. The gate creaked like a lament. The air was thick with dust and old memories.

I found Dads old ledger, his neat handwriting pencilling out plans for repairs he never managed.

The apple tree in the garden, the one wed planted together when I was a little girl, was still standing.

That house wasnt just bricks and mortar. It was history, memoryhome.

When Mum showed up and declared, Youre on your own, youve got it so much easier

I didnt swallow it this time.

Three rounds of IVF, I said quietly. Three.

For the first time, I managed the words:

The house is mine. I wont give it up.

The silence that followed wasnt emptyit was a relief.

Spring arrived early that year.

Mrs Collins from next door said, He was just waiting for you, you know, love.

And there I sat, on the veranda with my cup of tea, Dads old jumper around my shoulders, looking out at the apple tree.

This was my home.

Not because Id backed down.
But because it was my right.

I Know Best — What is going on? — Daniel crouched wearily in front of his daughter, eyeing the pink patches on her cheeks. — Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely grown-up. She was used to these examinations, her parents’ worried faces, endless creams and tablets. Maria came over and knelt next to her husband, gently brushing a lock of hair from Sophie’s face. — These medicines aren’t working. At all. It’s like giving her water. And the doctors at the surgery… they’re not doctors, just… who knows what. Third time they’ve changed her treatment plan — no effect. Daniel stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the sky was grey, and the day showed every sign of being as bleak as the last. They packed up quickly — wrapped Sophie in her warm coat, and half an hour later, sat in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. — So little, and already so much medicine. What a strain on her body, — she sat Sophie on her lap, and the little girl leaned against her, comforted. — It’s awful to see. — We’d love not to give her anything, — Maria perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers clenched. — But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve removed everything. Seriously, everything. She’s only eating the most basic foods — and she’s still covered in a rash. — What do the doctors say? — Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. More tests, more samples — but the only outcome… — Maria waved her hand. — Just her cheeks. Olga sighed and straightened Sophie’s collar. — Maybe she’ll grow out of it. Children do sometimes. For now, it’s just… not encouraging. Daniel looked at his daughter. Small and thin, her big, watchful eyes. He stroked her head and a memory of his own childhood floated up — sneaking pies that his mum baked on Saturdays, pleading for sweets, scooping jam right out of the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no sweets, no normal kid food. Four years old, on a stricter diet than many ulcer patients. — We don’t know what else to cut, — he said quietly. — Her diet is almost nothing. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the back seat, and Daniel kept glancing at her in the mirror. Sleeping at last. At least, not scratching. — Mum called, — Maria spoke up. — She wants us to bring Sophie round next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. — Theatre? — Daniel changed gear. — That’s good. Distraction is good. — That’s what I thought. It’ll do her good. Saturday, Daniel parked up at his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from her car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her fists — early wake-up, still tired. He scooped her up, and she nestled her nose in his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Patricia drifted out onto the porch in a flowery housecoat, hands outstretched as if greeting a shipwreck survivor. — Oh, my darling girl, my sunshine! — She gathered Sophie to her enormous bosom. — So pale, so thin. You’ve run her ragged with your diets, poor child is suffering. Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets, reining in his irritation. Same old story, every time. — It’s for her own good. Not for fun, believe me. — For her good? — Patricia pursed her lips, glancing at her granddaughter as if returning from a prison camp. — Nothing but skin and bone. She’s supposed to be growing, and you’re starving her! She carried Sophie inside without looking back, and the door clicked shut. Daniel stood on the steps, something nagging at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. He rubbed his forehead, listened to the quiet of the unfamiliar garden, then headed for the car. A childless weekend felt odd, almost forgotten. Saturday, he and Maria wandered the supermarket, pushing a trolley, stocking up for the week. At home, Daniel finally fixed the leaking bathroom tap, Maria cleared out the cupboards and packed old clothes for donation. Everyday chores, but the flat felt wrong, too empty without a child’s voice. That night, they ordered pizza — the kind with mozzarella and basil Sophie wasn’t allowed. Opened a bottle of red wine. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing much — like they hadn’t done in ages: work, holiday plans, that unfinished home decorating. — It’s nice, — Maria began, then hesitated, biting her lip. — I mean… you know. Just peaceful. Quiet. — I know, — Daniel covered her hand with his. — I miss her too. But a break isn’t unwelcome. On Sunday, he drove to collect Sophie just before dusk. The setting sun bathed the street deep orange; his mother-in-law’s house nestled behind old apple trees, almost inviting in the golden light. Daniel got out, pushed the garden gate — hinges squeaked — and stopped mid-stride. On the porch was his daughter, with Patricia seated beside her, face beaming. In her hand was a pie. Large, golden, oily. And Sophie was eating it. Cheeks messy, crumbs on her chin, and her eyes — shining, happier than he’d seen her in months. Daniel stared for a moment, then heat and anger surged in his chest. He strode forward and snatched the pie from Patricia. — What the hell is this?! Patricia recoiled, blushing crimson from her throat to her hairline. She flapped her hands, trying to ward off his anger. — It’s just a tiny bit! No harm done, it’s just a pie… Daniel wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up — she clung to his jacket, frightened and quiet — and carried her to the car. Strapped her in, hands shaking with fury. Sophie watched him with wide eyes, lips trembling — near tears. — It’s alright, sweetheart, — he stroked her head, voice steady as he could manage. — Wait here a moment. Daddy’ll be right back. He shut the door and marched back to the house. Patricia still waited on the porch, fiddling with her robe, splotched with red. — Daniel, you don’t understand… — I don’t understand?! — he stepped closer, temper unleashed. — Six months! Six months we didn’t know what was happening with our daughter! Doctors, hospital visits, allergen tests — do you know how much that all cost? How many sleepless nights? Patricia shrank back. — I just wanted to help… — Help?! — Daniel stepped in. — She lived off water and boiled chicken! We cut everything out! And you sneak her fried pies?! — I was building up her immunity! — Patricia suddenly squared up. — I gave her tiny bits so she’d get used to it. Another week or two and she would’ve been fine, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three children! Daniel stared at her, not recognising this person. The woman he tolerated for years, to keep peace for his wife — poisoning his child, believing she knew better than doctors. — Three children, — he said quietly, watching Patricia pale. — So what? Every child is different. And Sophie isn’t yours, she’s mine. You won’t see her again. — What?! — Patricia clutched the rail. — You can’t do that! — I can. He turned and walked to the car. Her shouts echoed behind him, but Daniel didn’t look back. Started the engine, saw her waving in the mirror, pressed the pedal. At home, Maria was waiting in the hall. One look at her husband’s face, their tearful child, and she understood instantly. — What happened? Daniel told her. Brief, guarded. Emotionless — he’d left that behind in Patricia’s garden. Maria listened, her face hardening every second. Then she grabbed her phone. — Mum. Yes, Daniel told me. How could you?! Daniel took Sophie to the bathroom — washed off the pie and tears. Behind the door, Maria’s angry, unfamiliar voice rang out; he’d never heard her speak to her mother that way. At the end: “Until we sort out her allergy — you’re not seeing Sophie.” Two months later… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. On the table: sponge cake with cream and strawberries. Sophie tucked in with a big spoon, smearing cream over her cheeks. Not a spot in sight. — Who’d have guessed, — Olga shook her head. — Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. — Doctor said one in a thousand kids, — Maria spread butter on her bread. — Swapped to olive oil, rash gone in two weeks. Daniel watched his daughter, couldn’t look away. Pink cheeks, bright eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, eating proper food at last. Cake, biscuits, all the treats — as long as sunflower oil was avoided. Relations with Patricia stayed chilly. She rang, apologised, cried. Maria kept her replies short and dry. Daniel didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, Olga pushed the plate nearer. — Go on, love. Eat up, enjoy. Daniel leaned back in his chair. Rain drummed on the window, but indoors was warm and fragrant with baking. His daughter was better; nothing else mattered.