The Grand Prize
Margaret Whitmore found herself a widow at thirty-two, left with two children: a son, Oliver, and a daughter, Harriet.
She forbade herself from even considering romance again. All the love she might have given a partner was poured into her eldest, Oliver. He was steady, agreeablethe kind of son she imagined would be her comfort in old age.
Harriet, on the other hand, took after her fatherdreamy, impulsive, with a stubborn spark in her eyes. She refused to bend to her mothers rigid expectations. Their conversations often sounded more like battles.
“You should be thinking about your future, not scribbling nonsense!” Margaret would snap, snatching the notebook from Harriets hands.
“And whats waiting in this future? A job at the factory like you? Just scraping by?” Harriet shot back.
Meanwhile, Oliver thrived under his mothers adoration. His mistakes were overlooked, his small victories treated like triumphs. He learned quickly: his mother was always on his side. Shed do anything for himso long as he didnt sour her mood. He wasnt cruel, just comfortably selfish.
Harriet, worn down by the cold war with her mother, left home at eighteen. She enrolled in teacher training college, got a tiny dorm room, and rarely called. Every visit ended in a row.
Then, she vanished entirely.
When neighbours asked after her, Margaret would stiffen and look away. Oliver, if his mother brought Harriet up, would shrug. “She hated it herelet her sort herself out.” Hed married by then but still dropped by every Sundayfor roast dinners, a container of leftovers, and a little “pocket money” from Mum.
Five years passed.
Then Harriet appeared on Margarets doorstep. Not alone. Clinging to her skirt was a little girl with enormous eyes. Harriet herself was thin as a shadow, coughing like her lungs might give out.
“And whos this?” Margaret asked icily, eyeing the child.
Harriet hadnt disappeared without reason. Shed hidden her pregnancy, knowing full well her mother wouldnt approve. Shed worked two jobs, lived hand-to-mouth, until her health broke. Doctors gave her no promisesjust time, if she was lucky. Someone had to take care of little Molly
So the circle closed. Harriet returned to the doorstep shed once been so desperate to leave.
Margaret took them in. Not out of love, but duty. “What would people say if I turned away my sick daughter and a child?” Thats what drove her.
They squeezed into the smallest room. Harriet faded quietly, while Molly, like a stubborn weed through concrete, began cracking her grandmothers stony heart.
Margaret realised, with some surprise, that this tiny creature wasnt afraid of her. Trusted her. Loved her. Molly brought her scribbled drawings”for Granny Maggie”hugged her in the mornings, and tried to cheer her when she scowled. When nightmares came, Molly didnt run to her mother, but to Grannys wide, scratchy bed.
Harriet died softly, as if shed barely lived at all.
Now the flat held two womenone with everything behind her, one with everything ahead.
Thats when the ice began to thaw.
Margaret, whod spent a lifetime fearing weakness, found it in herself at last. She taught Molly to bake scones, told family stories (carefully edited, of course), and cried into her pillow at night, realising how cold shed been to her daughter. Loving Molly was painfula belated, guilty love.
Oliver wasnt pleased.
“Mum, youll spoil her rotten!” he grumbled, watching Margaret buy Molly a new dress. “Were not made of money, you know.”
“Its my money,” Margaret snappedthe first steel in her voice ever directed at him.
Years passed. Molly grew into the person Margaret couldnt imagine life without. Olivers visits grew rare, just polite formalities. Still, he considered his mothers flat and cottage his rightful duehis niece was “practically a stranger,” not a proper heir.
Margaret saw it all. The way his eyes flickered over the flat. The hintsafter a drink or twoabout “getting the paperwork sorted.” Her heart, finally learning to love properly, ached for him. For the boy whod never grown up.
Her decision came quietly. No dramatic will to spark a feud after her death. Something subtler.
She took Molly to the bank and transferred every penny she hadnot a fortune, just a lifetime of careful savingsinto her granddaughters name.
“Gran, you dont have to! I dont need anything!” Molly protested.
“Hush,” Margaret said firmly. “This isnt for you. Its for me. So I know youll always have somethingso youll never depend on anyone. Especially not *them*.”
She suspected Oliver would bully Molly over the flat and cottage. With this, at least, Molly wouldnt walk away empty-handed.
Oliver lived in a grim little two-bed on the outskirts of townhis wife Susans inheritance. Money was tight. The flat felt stuck in the nineties, as if time had given up there.
His obsession? His mothers spacious three-bed in the city centre. High ceilings, original mouldings. To him, it wasnt just propertyit was justice. His reward.
First, hed never upset her. Second, it was his *right*. He, the good and dutiful son, had waited for it like a grand prize. His ticket to a better life. With it, he could pay off debts, maybe even save.
When the solicitor explained Molly had equal claim, Oliver was stunned. Hed assumedas the only living childhed get it all. Splitting it meant his dream was halved. The cottage wouldnt sell for much.
So when inheritance came up, Oliver transformed. His usual sullenness turned sharp, aggressive.
“Shes got no right!” hed storm, pacing the lounge. “Its *my* flat! Mums flat! Who even *is* she?”
Susan would knit silently. Shed heard this record for yearshow Harriet had made everyone miserable, then crawled back with a child in tow.
Oliver measured everything in cost. Yes, Molly helped Gran. But didnt *he*? He brought groceries once a month! Called the plumber! Gave up his Sundays!
What had Molly done? Lived there. She couldve been in care.
For six months, Oliver plotted to fight for his “rights.” He consulted solicitors, warned Molly shed be “dragged through court” if she didnt leave.
Then, after another ugly row, Molly surprised them all.
She invited Oliver and Susan for dinner. Laid the table with Grans favouritesthe same scones, the same leek and potato soup.
“Uncle Oliver, Aunt Susan,” she said softly. “You can have my share of the flat. Its yours. And Ive found a buyer for the cottage. If you agree, Ill take that money, leave, and never trouble you again.”
Silence. Susan stopped chewing. Oliver gaped.
“Youre joking. Thats worth half as much, and why should I let you?”
“Gran wanted me to have a start. The cottages worth far less, and you dont need it. Take the deal. I wont waste time on court.”
She stood and left. Oliver stared at the table. His whole battlegone. Hed won without lifting a finger.
The solicitor, braced for a nasty case, was pleasantly surprised when they signed the papers.
Molly, with Grans savings and the cottage money, bought a tiny flatenough left for a rainy-day fund. Every so often, shed remember that day at the bank. And shed thank Gran, silently, for giving her the means to walk awayand the freedom to never look back.
