My relatives used to laugh at me for taking care of “poor old Auntie.” Their faces fell when the will was read, leaving me her entire estate and three houses.
“Off to see your rich lady again?”
The voice of my cousin, Charlotte, dripped with venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway.
I fastened the last button in silence. There was no point replying. This was their morning ritual.
“Leave her be, Charlotte,” drawled Aunt Beatrice from the sitting room. “Shes got her charity work to tend to.”
Their laughter rang out, loud and rehearsed.
“I only promised to help Aunt Lydia with the windows before winter,” I said.
“Those windows were last sealed in 47,” Charlotte shot back, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on an old woman wholl leave you nothing but moth-eaten stockings. Talent, that.”
Her eyes raked over my plain coat and shoes.
“Not everyones after an inheritance, Charlotte.”
“Oh? Then what *are* you after? Spiritual enrichment from scrubbing floors in a council flat?”
I picked up my bag, filled with groceries for Lydia and the new book shed requested.
“My aim is to help someone I care about.”
“Care about?” Aunt Beatrice appeared in the doorway, her face twisted with old resentment. “That *dear* woman sold Granddads cottageour family retreatto buy herself a posh flat in town! Shes never spared a penny for anyone but herself!”
The root of their hatred. The cottage in the New Forest, built by Granddad for the whole family. Lydia, as the eldest, inherited it and sold it after his death. They called it betrayal.
I studied their faces, contorted with greed. Theyd never tried to understand her reasons.
They couldnt see the bond I shared with my great-aunt. They dismissed her sharp wit, her stories, her dry humor. To them, she was just a frail old woman in a worn dressing gown.
To me, she was the one who taught me to read, who pointed out constellations and birdcalls.
“Mark my words,” Charlotte hissed as I left. “Shell leave her flat to some cult. Youll end up with nothing but your precious *virtue*.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Lydias flat always smelled of dried herbs and old books. Simple, immaculate.
She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Isles of Scilly, documents and a tablet with charts beside her.
“Ah, Alice, youre here.” Her eyes brightened. “Keeping busy, as always.”
“Whats all this?” I nodded at the map.
“Oh, just tidying up old affairs,” she said with a sly smile. “Paperwork, darling.”
She folded the map and tucked away the files, but not before I caught “lease agreement” and “land registry.”
“More theatrics from the family?” she asked, reading my mood.
I shrugged.
“They count every penny, Alice. But they miss what matters.” She took the book Id brought, her face lighting up. “Thank you. Youre the only one who knows what I truly need.”
Weeks later, Aunt Beatrice called, saccharine-sweet.
“Alice, darling! Hows our dear Lydia?”
I stiffened. “Shes well, thank you.”
“I was thinking Charlottes friend, an estate agent, is interested in properties near hers. We ought to help Lydia sort her affairs. Make sure her papers are in order. Hed advise herfree of charge.”
“I doubt she needs help.”
“Oh, but shes elderly! You should ask about her will. Were *family*we must look out for each other.”
Nausea rose in my throat. “I wont ask. Goodbye.”
At my next visit, Lydia was unsettled.
“A man came, claiming to be an insurance assessor. Said the wiring here was unsafe. But his questionslike an inquisition. About ownership, accounts, family”
I froze, plates in hand. Beatrices scheme. Cunning.
“He asked who visited, how often. Hinted that the elderly are often *swindled*.”
As I washed up, Lydia took a call, her tone brisk.
“No, Archibald, we wont raise the rent this season. Reputation outweighs quick profit.”
She hung up and winked at my puzzled look. “Business, Alice. Small ventures.”
The breaking point came on my birthday. Lydia met me with troubled eyes. A cold cup of tea sat untouched.
“Charlotte came,” she murmured. “To wish you happy birthday. In absentia.”
She wouldnt meet my gaze.
“What did she say?”
“That you complain about me. That youre *waiting* for it all to end” Her voice wavered. “That you mock me behind my back.”
Theyd struck where it hurt mostour trust.
Something inside me snapped. All that kindness, that patiencegone. Only cold emptiness remained.
I took Lydias ice-cold hand. “You know its lies.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I do. But it *hurts* After what happened with your grandfather”
For the first time, she spoke of it.
“When he died, your uncleBeatrices husbanddemanded his share. *Immediately*. My money was tied up in land near St. Ives. I begged him to wait a year. He refused. So I gave him the cottage. And Beatrice spun it as theft.”
Now it made sense. Their hatred thrived on lies theyd crafted.
“They dont deserve your tears,” I said firmly. “And I wont let them hurt you again.”
Id made my decision. No more victim.
The next day, I called Beatrice.
“You wanted clarity? Lydias unwell. Shes putting her affairs in order. Come tomorrow at seven. Bring Charlotte.”
“Has she decided something?” Greed tinged her voice.
“Oh yes. Youll find it *fascinating*.”
At seven sharp, the doorbell rang. Beatrice and Charlotte swept in, triumphant.
Lydia sat calmly at the table. I stood beside her. On the third chaira stranger in a suit: Archibald.
“Good evening,” he said. “Sit. Lydia wishes to make an official statement regarding her estate.”
“What estate?” Charlotte scoffed.
“Lydia,” Archibald continued, “is sole owner of three freehold cottages in St. Ives. She also holds an investment portfolio exceeding the value of your home by roughly twentyfold.”
Charlotte paled.
“Thisthis is a mistake,” Beatrice whispered.
“I lived as I chose,” Lydia said firmly. “Money prefers silence.”
Archibald handed me documents.
“Lydia has signed deeds gifting all aforementioned assetsincluding this flat and investmentsto her great-niece, Alice. The business transfers to her as well.”
“But*why her*?” Charlotte shrieked.
“Family,” Lydia said quietly, “isnt those who wait to divide your fortune. Its those who fetch your medicine in the night.”
She smiled at me. “Alice saw *me*not a payout. She never asked for a thing. Thats why she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Beatrice screamed. “Well sue!”
“All documents are notarized,” Archibald said coolly. “We also have recordings of your assessor and all threats. Attempted fraud against an elderly person.”
He closed the file. The end.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door. “Your greed, your lies. Goodbye.”
They left in silence. Crushed.
Lydia hugged me tightly. “Well, Alice. Now we manage the estate together. Ready?”
I glanced at the map. Justice had been served.
**Epilogue**
Six months later, I quit my job. Managing three cottages was a full-time endeavour.
Lydianow my “business guru”proved a shrewd mentor. Her modest flat became our headquarters.
We didnt move. Lydia loved her neighbourhood. What changed wasnt the place, but how we felt in it. I bought a new car but still brought her groceries and books.
Beatrice and Charlotte sued. The case dragged on. They painted me as a manipulator, Lydia as senile. Archibald dismantled their claims with recordings and witnesses. They lost, left with staggering legal debts.
Afterward, they vanished. Gossip said Beatrice sold her house. Moved to the outskirts.
Once, Charlotte called. Her hollow voice begged forgivenessand money.
“Mums ill No work Alice, were *family*”
I listened in silence. The old Alice was gone.
“Youre right, Charlotte. Were relatives. But not family. Goodbye.”
Some bridges must be burned.
One autumn evening, Lydia and I sat on the terrace of “our” cottage in St. Ives.
“I never *meant* to amass wealth,” she said suddenly. “I just worked. My husband was clever. We
