Lydia Wilson stood by the window, staring at the neighbour’s garden where a younger woman was hanging laundry on the line. A stranger in the house that should’ve been hers. The house where she’d grown up, where her youth had passed, where her mother had taken her last breath.
“Lydia, what are you doing just standing there?” her younger sister Nina called out, walking into the kitchen with shopping bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, stepping away from the window. “Watching her act like she owns the place.”
“Stop torturing yourself,” Nina said, unpacking the groceries. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, and I’m just a burden on you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You’re no burden, and you know it.”
Lydia sat at the table and picked up her lukewarm cup. The tea was bitter—no sugar. Money had been tight since she lost the house. Her pension was small, and now they had to split everything between the two of them.
“Nina, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” she asked, stirring her tea absently.
“Of course. She said the house would go to both of us, split down the middle.”
“Exactly. Half and half. But instead, it all went to that woman—Valerie’s daughter.”
Nina sank into a chair. The topic of the will was a sore spot for both of them.
“Lydia, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. Mum wasn’t herself in those last years. The doctors said it was dementia.”
“But she didn’t write that will alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses. How could they let her give everything to some outsider?”
“Emily isn’t an outsider. She looked after Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Looked after her!” Lydia scoffed. “A few months of dropping off medicine. And what about us? Thirty years of caring for Mum meant nothing?”
Nina stayed quiet. They both knew it wasn’t fair, but there was nothing they could do. The courts had ruled against them, and the house went to Emily—a distant relative who’d only appeared in their lives in the final years.
A knock at the door cut through the heavy silence.
“I’ll get it,” Nina said.
Voices carried from the hallway, and soon their niece Sophie walked in—their late brother’s daughter.
“Hello, Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek. “How are you holding up?”
“Getting by,” Lydia muttered. “What about you? How’s work?”
“Fine. Planning a holiday to the coast. Actually, I wanted to ask—do you need any money? I could help a bit.”
Lydia and Nina exchanged glances. Sophie had always been kind, but this offer felt especially touching.
“Thank you, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Alright, but if you change your mind, just say. Oh, and I’ve got some news. Remember Emily, the one who got Gran’s house?”
Lydia tensed.
“Of course. What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the listing online yesterday. Asking for four hundred thousand.”
“What?!” Lydia nearly jumped out of her seat. “She’s selling it?!”
“Yeah. Says the place is old, needs expensive repairs, and she wants a flat in the city.”
“I can’t believe it,” Nina whispered. “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”
“What family?” Lydia gave a bitter laugh. “Some distant cousin gets her hands on it and does whatever she likes.”
Sophie shifted uncomfortably.
“Aunt Lydia, maybe you could talk to her? See if she’d sell it to you for less?”
“With what money?” Lydia threw up her hands. “My pension’s eight hundred a month, Nina’s is a thousand. Where would we get four hundred grand?”
“Maybe a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Sophie sighed. “It’s such a shame. That house was lovely.”
“Was,” Lydia echoed.
After Sophie left, the sisters sat in silence as the evening sun painted the kitchen gold.
“You know what,” Lydia said suddenly, “I’m going to see her. Emily.”
“Why?” Nina frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’ll grow a conscience.”
“Lydia, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”
“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”
The next morning, Lydia put on her best dress and walked to her childhood home—just two streets over, but every step felt heavy.
The place looked neglected. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, and weeds choked the garden. Lydia winced, remembering how pristine it had been when her mother was alive.
She knocked. Emily answered—a woman in her mid-forties, heavyset, with a pinched expression.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”
“Good morning, Emily. Could we talk?”
“About what?”
“Let me in, please. It’s awkward standing here.”
Emily reluctantly let her inside. The hallway smelled musty, like unwashed dishes. Lydia’s heart ached at the sight of the peeling walls, now grimy and unloved.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Emily muttered.
The kitchen was a mess—dirty plates everywhere, pots crusted with food, windows patched with tape.
“Sit,” Emily nodded at a chair. “Make it quick. I’m busy.”
Lydia perched on the edge of the seat.
“Emily, I heard you’re selling the house.”
“So?”
“This was our family home. Nina and I grew up here. Our parents lived here. It means everything to us.”
“And what’s that to me?”
“Would you consider selling it to us? I know we don’t have much, but maybe we could arrange payments—”
Emily laughed, a harsh, mocking sound.
“Payments! From two penniless old women? Are you mad?”
“Emily, please. We’ll agree to anything.”
“Anything?” Emily sneered. “Where were you when your mother was ill? Who took her to doctors? Who bought her medicine?”
“We helped when we could—”
“‘Helped’!” Emily mocked. “Popping in once a month with a bag of shopping—that’s help? Who fed her? Who washed her sheets? Who stayed up with her when she was restless at night?”
Lydia looked down. There was truth in Emily’s words. Their mother had needed constant care in the end, and they’d had their own struggles—jobs, families, health problems.
“I know you did a lot for Mum,” Lydia said quietly. “And we’re grateful. But the house—”
“The house was left to me legally!” Emily snapped. “Your mother was sound of mind when she signed the will. The solicitor checked, the doctors confirmed it. And now you come begging because you didn’t get your way?”
“We’re not begging. We’re asking—”
“You’re demanding! Acting like you’re owed something! Where were you when it mattered?”
Emily stood, pacing the kitchen, arms flailing.
“You know what, Lydia? I’ll sell to the highest bidder. You’d better start looking for somewhere else to live. Save the tears for my funeral.”
Lydia rose slowly.
“Sorry to have troubled you.”
“Don’t trouble me again. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
Outside, Lydia paused at the gate, looking back at the house. As a child, it had seemed grand and beautiful. Her mother had kept it immaculate—apple trees in the garden, flowers by the path.
Now it just looked sad. As if the house itself mourned better days.
She walked home slowly. An elderly neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, spotted her.
“Lydia, love, why the long face?”
“Just been to see Emily. Asked her not to sell the house.”
“And?”
“Refused. Says she’ll sell to the highest bidder.”
Mrs. Higgins shook her head.
“Oh, dear. If your mother knew what had become of that place…”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see? The house is falling apart. Emily’s got pigs in the shed, never takes the bins out. The neighbours are complaining.”
“Pigs?!” Lydia recoiled.
“Aye. Says she’s fattening them for meat. The stink! Your mother would be turning in her grave.”
Lydia’s chest tightened with outrage. Turning their family home into a pigsty!
“Mrs. Higgins, has anyone shown interest in buying it?”
“Not yet. Who’d pay that price? The place needs a fortune spent on it, and Emily’s asking the moon.”
At home, Lydia told Nina about Emily’s pigs.
“She’s keeping pigs?!” Nina gasped. “In Mum’s house?”
“That’s not all. She wants four hundred
