**The Will**
The old, spacious flat hummed with unusual activity. The doorbell jangled repeatedly as relatives filed in. This time, it was a burly man in an expensive suit, the jacket straining over his protruding stomach. A pale, mousy woman offered him a sour smile, while another man rose from the sofa to greet him.
“Edward! Didn’t think you’d come.” They shook hands. “Sit, tell me how life’s treating you.”
The woman sulkily shuffled aside, making room for the brothers.
“*This is William’s wife? After all the birds he chased, he ends up with this one…*” Edward struggled to find the right word.
The bell clattered again. All three turned toward the door. The final guest they’d been waiting for stepped inside—a tall man in black trousers and a navy jumper, crisp white shirt beneath.
Boris nodded curtly, scanned the room, and settled into a worn armchair in the far corner.
“*Look at him, all posh now,*” Edward mused. He recognized him instantly, though they hadn’t met in thirty years. Now the three brothers—three heirs—had gathered like crows over a carcass. Edward had hoped he’d be the only one to show. Definitely not Boris.
They’d all received the same summons: to bid farewell to Aunt Margaret. The address was included, *just in case they’d forgotten*.
Edward had built a comfortable life miles away—good job, nice house, two daughters, one already a grandmother herself. He didn’t *need* Margaret’s inheritance. Curiosity had dragged him here.
As a boy, the flat had seemed vast, its dark corners haunted by looming furniture and an imposing grandfather clock.
After their father fell from scaffolding and died, their mother withered from grief. How could she raise three boys alone? William, the youngest, wasn’t even five. Life was hard. Then Margaret’s brother, a man they’d never heard of, arrived one day. He offered to take the two eldest boys—just until their mother recovered. He gave her money and left with them.
Their mother drowned her sorrows in drink and died soon after.
Aunt Margaret was stern, cold. She fed them, clothed them, tried to love them. Edward, ever shrewd, saw an opportunity. He ingratiated himself with his uncle and aunt.
Boris, though? Withdrawn. He refused to bond with their new family. After school, he didn’t follow Edward to university. Instead, he returned to their hometown, got a job, studied by correspondence. Their uncle sent money—Boris always sent it back with a note: *I don’t need it.*
Edward married in his final year and moved to his wife’s family in Manchester. William grew up wild, the black sheep of the family.
“*This place needs work. Sell it for a tidy sum. The furniture’s solid—real antique. And the Bohemian crystal in the cabinet… Plus whatever’s in the bank. Unless it vanished in the nineties…*” Edward caught himself.
His gaze kept drifting to Boris, who sat motionless, legs crossed. William whispered with his wife, eyeing his brothers. “*Boris was always the outcast. William will blow his share…*” Edward felt he deserved Margaret’s fortune most.
A pretty girl had let them in—probably Margaret’s carer. Just as Edward thought it, a wheelchair rolled in, bearing a frail old woman. Her head drooped, a thick blanket covering her legs.
The girl positioned the chair so Margaret could see them all. Against her grandmother’s frailty, she looked even lovelier. The brothers were stunned—they hadn’t expected *a living relative*.
Edward did the maths—she had to be pushing ninety. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram *had* said “to bid farewell.”
He studied her: wrinkled face speckled with age, wiry grey hair sticking out. Gnarled hands, swollen veins. Time hadn’t spared the proud woman he remembered.
“Margaret’s happy to see you all,” the girl said brightly.
“I tracked you down at her request. Sorry if the telegram was unclear. She wanted to settle the will properly—no squabbles later.”
“So our wishes will be considered?” Edward perked up.
“Not exactly. Tea, anyone?” She turned to William’s wife.
“Who *are* you?” Edward cut in.
“This is Emily, my granddaughter,” Margaret rasped suddenly.
Edward gaped at her, then at Boris, who sat calmly. William fidgeted.
“*William’s daughter? Another heir. Bloody inconvenient. We’ll need proof…*” Edward glared at Emily’s back.
Soon, only the brothers and Margaret remained.
“Thank you for coming,” she croaked. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Not here for *me*—for the money. Well, you’ll get what you deserve. Just don’t squabble at my grave if the will displeases you.”
“Is there much to squabble over?” Edward asked.
“You’ve changed. Boris, glad you came, though you never liked me. William’s still a wastrel,” she wheezed.
“I’m old, not senile.” Her head drooped again.
Edward thought she’d dozed off. The brothers exchanged glances.
Emily returned, calling them for tea. William bolted to the kitchen, relieved. Edward and Boris stayed put.
“You never made up?” Margaret asked suddenly.
“Didn’t work out,” Edward answered for both.
“You’ve let yourself go—that waistcoat’s about to burst. Life’s been kind. Why didn’t you bring your wife?”
“Busy—she’s a headmistress,” Edward boasted. “Two daughters, both married. One’s made me a granddad.”
“Brothers should stick together. You’re all I have left. And Emily. The flat goes to her.”
Edward stiffened.
“Don’t glare. She cared for me ten years. *She* kept me alive. You? Not a card, not a visit. I tried to be a mother—failed. But *you*, Edward? Why never come?”
He floundered for an answer.
“There’s the cottage too. Solid place, plenty of land. Remember how you loved it, Boris? And the ’78 Mercedes in the garage—classic now.”
“No one leaves empty-handed,” she cackled, yellowed teeth bared. Edward shuddered. “*Is she a witch? Still got all her teeth…*”
“Emily!” Margaret called.
The girl appeared instantly.
“Tired. Bed,” Margaret mumbled.
Only then did Edward notice the lights were on—darkness outside. The grandfather clock read nearly ten. Had it really been two hours? Time had slipped away like a cat’s tongue lapping cream.
Emily wheeled Margaret out.
“I thought she was dead. Came to say goodbye—she’s *alive*,” Edward muttered.
Boris said nothing.
“Well, if she’s declared the will, she’ll die now, right?” Edward joked. Boris didn’t laugh.
Emily assigned them rooms. William had already left for a hotel.
Edward tossed and turned, hearing whispers, footsteps. He checked the hallway—empty, drafty. Dawn broke before he slept.
He woke late. The flat was tomb-silent. “*My nerves. Shouldn’t have come.*” He sighed, donned yesterday’s shirt—he hated re-wearing clothes—and headed to the kitchen. Breakfast was laid out. Coffee steamed. His stomach growled.
“*Did Emily do this? Not bad. Too young for me, though…*” He ate, sipped coffee.
The doorbell rang. A short, bespectacled doctor in a white coat entered, Emily trailing.
“Is Margaret alright?” Edward asked. They ignored him.
He followed, but Emily blocked him at her door.
“You can’t go in.” The door shut in his face.
He searched for William—his room was empty.
“*What’s happening?*”
In the hall, he cornered the doctor.
“Leaving so soon? How’s Margaret?”
“She passed last night,” the doctor adjusted his glasses.
“How?”
“Old age.” A shrug.
“Gran didn’t want the morgue. Dr. Harris’ll handle it. Funeral’s tomorrow,” Emily said.
Only then did Edward notice her red eyes.
“You’re keeping her *here*? That’s disgusting!” His voice cracked.
“If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll book you a hotel—”
“Do. I won’t stay *another minute*.”
“But don’t leave town. The will’s read after the funeral.”
Edward waved her off.
He checked into a nearby hotel. Next day, they gathered at the cemetery. Try as he might, Edward felt no grief—just as he’d felt nothing for Margaret the past thirty years. William and his wife watched curiously. Surprisingly, Boris wept.
Back at the flat, the wake was ready. Two tiny women bustled in the kitchen.
William, tipsy, revealed they’d prepared Margaret’s body the night before. Edward eyedThe two women serving food had washed and dressed Margaret’s corpse with those same hands—Edward pushed his plate away, stomach turning.
