“No, don’t,” Vera said suddenly, her voice tight. “You know what—just take the house. I’ll have the cottage. Even if it’s worth less.”
“Margaret, are you absolutely sure you read everything properly?” Vera’s hands trembled as she spoke. “Could there be something between the lines?”
“I read it, I read it!” The solicitor pushed the document across the desk. “It’s just the standard wording: ‘By this will, I revoke all previous wills and codicils.’ That’s all. Nothing else.”
Anne sat frozen, twisting her glasses in her hands, slipping them on and off. Vera fidgeted with the clasp of her handbag, while Eugene, the youngest of the late Helen Thompson’s three children, stared blankly at the wall.
“But how?” Anne finally managed, her voice hoarse. “Mum said she’d sorted it—that she’d divided the house and cottage between us. Vera, remember last summer when she explained it all?”
“Of course I remember!” Vera threw up her hands. “She said you’d get the house, Anne, because you’ve got the kids and need the space. The cottage was for me—I spend every summer there. And Eugene was to have the savings—he’s in London, what does he need with property here?”
Eugene lifted his head, looking between his sisters.
“I thought she was just talking. You know how she liked to plan things out, dream aloud. Never imagined she’d actually written a will.”
Margaret coughed delicately.
“The thing is, Helen did make a will. But that was years ago—ten, at least. Then, it seems, she changed her mind and wrote a new one revoking the old. Only… she never got around to redistributing the estate. It happens, I’m afraid.”
Anne stood, pacing the office. At forty-three, she was a schoolteacher, raising two children alone after the divorce. Her mother’s crumbling house had been her last hope for a home of her own.
“So now it’s split equally? Three ways?” Her voice cracked.
“That’s correct. The house, the cottage, the bank accounts—all divided equally.”
Vera scoffed.
“Good! Anne’s already pulling faces, thinking she’d get it all. As if I’d let her walk off with everything!”
“Vera!” Anne glared. “You know what Mum wanted!”
“Oh, I know! But wanting isn’t the same as doing, is it? And our dear mother—God rest her—always was one to leave things to the last minute.”
Eugene stood, buttoning his coat.
“Enough arguing. We’ll sort this at home. Margaret, when do we need to come back?”
“A week. I’ll have the documents ready. But first, you’ll need to agree between yourselves who gets what. If you can’t, the courts will decide for you.”
Outside, a miserable October drizzle fell. Anne pulled up her hood; Vera snapped open her umbrella. Eugene lit a cigarette, muttering under his breath.
“Shall we get a coffee? Talk properly?” Anne suggested.
“Don’t want to talk,” Vera snapped. “I can see how gutted you are—thought you’d get the lot, didn’t you? But Mum had three children, not just you.”
“Vera, stop it! It’s not my fault the will’s like this.”
“Not strange—fair!” Vera slammed her umbrella shut hard enough to send raindrops flying.
Eugene stubbed out his cigarette on the wet bench.
“Enough! It’s pouring, and we’re making a scene. Let’s go to Anne’s, have a cuppa, and talk properly.”
The walk took fifteen minutes, each lost in thought. Helen’s house stood on a quiet street, peeling but solid. The windows were boarded, the gate padlocked.
“Who’s got the keys?” Eugene asked.
“Me.” Anne fished them from her pocket. “Took them after the funeral, thought I’d start clearing things out.”
The garden was choked with weeds, the apple trees untrimmed, the greenhouse sagging. Inside, the air smelled damp and stale.
“Oh, Mum,” Vera whispered, her voice breaking. “Look at the state of it.”
The living room was unchanged—old furniture, the piano they’d all learned to play, the cabinet with crystal glasses. Photos lined the walls: their parents’ wedding, school portraits, grandchildren.
Anne put the kettle on, digging out biscuits from the cupboard. They sat at the round table where the family had once gathered.
“Remember how Mum used to make us do homework here?” Vera said quietly. “We’d always try to sneak off outside.”
“And Eugene, that time you failed algebra,” Anne smiled. “Mum threatened the belt, then stayed up all night helping you with equations.”
Eugene nodded.
“Strict, but fair. Never played favourites.”
Vera stirred her tea.
“Fair? Then why’d she want the will favouring you? Me with the cottage, you with the savings, Anne with the house—the most valuable thing!”
“Vera, it wasn’t about favouritism,” Anne sighed. “Mum just thought about who needed what. I’ve got the kids, no proper home—the house made sense. You’ve got your flat but love the cottage. And Eugene’s in London—cash matters more than property to him.”
“Easy to say when you’re getting the most!”
Eugene slammed a fist on the table.
“Enough! Vera, listen to yourself! Mum died a month ago, and we’re squabbling like vultures!”
Silence fell, broken only by the ticking clock and the rain outside.
“You know,” Anne said, standing by the window, “maybe she did this on purpose.”
“How?” Vera frowned.
“Think about it. Mum was sharp—she planned everything. Would she really forget to specify who gets what?”
Eugene rubbed his chin.
“What are you getting at?”
“That maybe she wanted us to work it out ourselves. To divide it fairly, by heart. Remember how she always said, ‘You’re grown-ups—you know right from wrong.'”
Vera snorted.
“Oh, sure. Now she’s a saint. More likely she just ran out of time. She was ill at the end.”
“Maybe,” Anne conceded. “But we’re still here. We can do what she wanted.”
“How?” Vera’s eyes narrowed.
“The way she told us. Me with the house, you with the cottage, Eugene with the savings.”
“Ha!” Vera shot up. “I knew it! You’ve been angling for this! The house is worth twice the cottage!”
“Vera, calm down,” Eugene cut in. “Let’s think practically. The house is worth more—but look at it. The wallpaper’s peeling, the plumbing’s ancient, God knows about the wiring. And the roof? Anne, do you have the money to fix all that?”
“I know,” she said softly. “But it’d still be my own roof.”
Vera sat back down, quiet for a moment.
“And the cottage is any better? The greenhouse’s falling apart, the fence is rotten. It’ll cost a fortune too.”
“But the land’s good,” Eugene pointed out. “Right by the river. Could be worth something if fixed up.”
“So what’s your solution?” Vera snapped.
Eugene lit another cigarette—something he’d never have dared do in front of their mother.
“We get everything valued. Split it equally—cash or assets, but fairly.”
“How?” Anne frowned. “Hire an appraiser?”
“If we have to. Or we could sell it all.”
The sisters stared.
“What?” Vera said.
“The house is a wreck. Anne, could you even live there without massive repairs? And Vera, could you handle the cottage alone?”
Anne bit her lip. The idea made sense—but something ached at the thought.
“It’d break my heart to sell Mum’s house. Our whole lives happened here.”
“Lives end. Houses don’t,” Eugene said quietly. “What’s the point if it just rots?”
Vera spun her empty cup.
“You know what? Maybe he’s right. Sell it all, split the money, no debts between us.”
Anne exhaled.
“Alright. But let’s not rush. A week to think, then we decide.”
“Agreed,” Eugene nodded. “I’ll come by this weekend, see what can be salvaged.”
Night fell early. Eugene left for his hotel; Vera went home. Alone, Anne wandered the silent house, touching familiar things.
On the bedside table lay Helen’s notebook. Anne flicked through doctors’ numbers, shopping lists—then, on the last page, in faint pencil:
“Anne—house & garden. Vera—cottage. Eugene—savings & car. Equal love for all.”
Anne clutched the notebook to her chest and wept. Their mother had planned it all—just not on paper. Or perhaps she’d trusted them to do right without being told.
The next day, she showed the note to Eugene and
