Lydia Whitmore stood by the window, staring at the neighbouring garden where a younger woman hung laundry on the line. A stranger in the house that should have been hers—the house where she’d grown up, where her youth had passed, where her mother had died.
“Lydia, what are you doing just standing there?” her younger sister Nina called out, stepping into the kitchen with grocery bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, turning away from the window. “Watching her act like she owns the place.”
“Stop tormenting yourself,” Nina said, unpacking the shopping onto the table. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, and here I am, living off you.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re no burden, and you know it.”
Lydia sat at the table and picked up her lukewarm cup. The tea was bitter—unsweetened, to save on sugar. Since losing the house, money had become painfully tight. Her pension was meagre, and now they had to make do between the two of them.
“Nina, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” Lydia asked, stirring her tea absently.
“Of course. She said the house would go to us, split down the middle.”
“Exactly. Half and half. Instead, it all went to Valerie’s girl.”
Nina sank heavily into a chair. The subject of the will was still a raw wound for both sisters.
“Lydia, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Mum wasn’t herself in those last years. The doctors said it was dementia.”
“But she didn’t write the will alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses. How could they let an ill woman sign everything away to an outsider?”
“Diana isn’t an outsider. She looked after Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Looked after her!” Lydia scoffed. “Popped in a few times with medicine. And what were we doing for thirty years—neglecting her?”
Nina stayed silent. Both sisters knew it was unjust, but nothing could be changed now. They’d lost the court case, and the house had gone to Diana—a distant relative who’d only appeared in their lives in recent years.
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“I’ll get it,” Nina said.
Voices murmured in the hall, and then their niece Emily—their late brother’s daughter—stepped into the kitchen.
“Hello, Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Oh, getting by,” Lydia replied. “And you? How’s work?”
“Not bad. Planning a holiday to the coast soon. Actually, I wanted to ask—do you need any help with money? I could spare a bit.”
Nina and Lydia exchanged glances. Emily had always been kind, but the offer touched them deeply.
“Thanks, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Well, if you ever need anything, just say. But I actually came with some news. Remember Diana—the one who got Gran’s house?”
Lydia stiffened.
“Of course we remember. What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the listing online yesterday. Asking for half a million quid.”
“What?!” Lydia shot up from her seat. “She’s selling it?!”
“Afraid so. Says the place is old, needs expensive repairs, and she’d rather have a flat in town.”
“I don’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 as she pleases.”
Emily 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 nine-fifty. Where would we get half a million?”
“Could you take out a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Emily sighed.
“Such a shame. It was a lovely house.”
“Was,” Lydia echoed.
After Emily left, the sisters sat in silence as the evening sun cast gold across the kitchen.
“You know what,” Lydia said suddenly, “I’m going to see her. Diana.”
“Why?” Nina frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’ll find a shred of decency.”
“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, though every step felt heavier than the last.
The place looked neglected. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, and weeds choked the once-tidy garden. Lydia winced, remembering how pristine it had been when her mother was alive.
She knocked. Diana answered—a stout woman in her mid-forties with a pinched expression.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”
“Hello, Diana. Could we talk?”
“About what?”
“Let me in, please. This isn’t a conversation for the doorstep.”
Diana reluctantly stepped aside. Inside, the air smelled musty, the walls grubby and peeling. The sight of her family home in such disrepair made Lydia’s chest ache.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Diana muttered.
The kitchen was a mess—dirty dishes piled high, tape holding cracked windows together.
“Sit,” Diana gestured to a chair. “Make it quick.”
Lydia perched on the edge.
“Diana, 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?”
“Would you consider selling it to us? I know we don’t have much, but maybe we could arrange instalments—”
Diana let out a harsh laugh.
“Instalments? From two broke old ladies? Are you mad?”
“Please, Diana. We’d agree to anything.”
“Anything?” Diana sneered. “Where were you when your mother was ill? Who took her to doctors? Bought her medicine?”
“We helped when we could—”
“Helped!” Diana mocked. “Popping in once a month with groceries? I was the one feeding her, washing her sheets, sitting up with her at night!”
Lydia looked down. There was truth in Diana’s words. Their mother had needed constant care in those last years, 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—”
“That house was left to me legally!” Diana snapped. “Your mother was sound of mind when she signed the will. The solicitor confirmed it. Now you’re crying foul because you didn’t get your way.”
“We’re not making demands. We’re just asking—”
“You’re not asking—you’re entitled! Acting like the world owes you. Where were you when it mattered?”
Diana stood, pacing the kitchen.
“Listen, Lydia. I’ll sell to the highest bidder. You’d best start looking elsewhere.”
Lydia rose, trembling.
“Forgive me for bothering you.”
“Don’t bother me again.”
Outside, Lydia paused at the gate, looking back. As a child, the house had seemed grand and beautiful. Her mother had kept it immaculate—apple trees in the garden, flowers by the doorstep.
Now it looked forsaken, as if mourning better days.
She walked home slowly. Their neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, spotted her.
“Lydia, love, you look down. Everything all right?”
“Just been to see Diana. Asked her not to sell the house.”
“And?”
“Refused. Says she’ll sell to the highest bidder.”
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.
“Oh, pet. Your mother would be heartbroken.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you see? The place is falling apart. Diana’s turned the shed into a pigsty—literally. The stench is awful. Neighbours are complaining.”
“Pigs?!” Lydia recoiled.
“Aye. Says she’s fattening them for market. Your poor mum would be spinning in her grave.”
Lydia felt sick. Turning her family home into a farmyard!
“Mrs. Wilkins, has anyone shown interest in buying?”
“Not yet. Who’d pay half a million for a wreck? Diana’s priced it like it’s Buckingham Palace.”
Back home, Lydia told Nina about Diana’s pigs.
“Pigs?!” Nina gasped. “In Mum’s house?”
“That’s not all. She wants half a million for it.”
“Who’d pay that for a ruin?”
“Exactly what Mrs. Wilkins said
