Its been a year since I lost my husband. Today, a delayed letter arrived from him with just one word: “Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”
The ping from my laptop made me jump.
A year to the day. The exact minute. Twelve months since that phone call that split my life in two.
On the screen, a single line glowed: “Scheduled delivery. From: Christopher Whitmore.”
My fingers went numb. I stared at my husbands nameone that had no right appearing there. It felt like a cruel joke.
With shaking hands, I opened the email. Barely any text. Just one sentence, seared into my mind like a branding iron:
“Nicky, if youre reading thisthen its real. Dont believe a word my mother says. Look under the old apple tree in the garden. She knows everything.”
A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence like a gunshot. There she stood. My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. Her face was a mask of grief, her hands clutching a food container.
“Veronica, darling,” she crooned, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I thought youd be all alone today. Came to check on you.”
She walked into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation, setting the container on the table. I shut the door behind her, the laptop burning against my back.
“Heres what Ive decided,” Margaret began, her eyes scanning the kitchen like a surveyor. “We need to sell the cottage.”
I froze. The cottage. Our place. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” My voice sounded foreign. “Why?”
“Whats the point of keeping it now?” She threw her hands up theatrically. “Its just a burden for you, and for mewell, its extra income. Too painful to visit, anyway. Everything there reminds me of Christopher.”
Her words were logical, reasonable. But as I looked at her, I didnt see a grieving mother. I saw a predator waiting to strike. The words from the letter echoed in my head.
“Actually, I already have a buyer,” she added casually. “Reliable chap. Offering a good price, but he wont wait forever. Cash in hand.”
“I I need time to think,” I forced out.
Her face changed instantly. The mask slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
“Whats there to think about? Do you want our familys home to rot? Let strangers tear it apart?”
She stepped closer, her gaze digging into me.
“Ive already prepared the paperwork. Ten oclock tomorrow at the solicitors. Just show up and sign. Dont make an old woman beg.”
I stepped back. This wasnt a request. It was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystal clarity, I understood why Christopher had sent that message from beyond the grave.
He knew. He knew something about his mother and that cottage.
“Fine,” I whispered, my insides turning to ice. “Ill be there.”
Margarets triumphant smile was fleeting, quickly replaced by her mask of sympathy.
“Thats my girl. Its for the best. Life must go on.”
When the door closed behind her, I walked to the key rack. My hand reached for the lone key with its little apple-shaped fob. The cottage key. The key to Christophers secret.
I barely slept that night. His words and Margarets demands twisted together into a sticky knot of dread. By morning, I had no intention of going to any solicitor.
At six a.m., as the city still slept, my car sped down the empty motorway. A cold dawn mist clung to the trees.
My phone rang at exactly nine. I ignored it. Margaret. A minute later, a text: “Where are you? Were all waiting.”
I didnt reply.
The old cottage greeted me with boarded-up windows. The air smelled of damp leaves. Every corner whispered of Christopherthe bench he built, the path to the river we used to walk.
In the shed, I found an old but sturdy spade.
The ancient apple tree stood in the farthest corner of the garden, its gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky. I drove the spade into the earth.
Digging was hard. Roots clung stubbornly to the soil; stones dulled the blade. My phone buzzed again. This time, I answered.
“Veronica, what game are you playing?” Margarets voice was glacial, not a trace of yesterdays sympathy. “The solicitor wont wait forever.”
“Im not coming,” I panted.
“What do you mean, not coming? How dare you? Ive spent six months arranging this!”
I stayed silent, driving the spade deeper.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply. I always get what I want.”
The line went dead.
I tossed the phone aside. Her threat only fuelled me. I dug like mad, ignoring the dirt and the ache in my back.
Thenclang. The spade struck something hard.
I dropped to my knees, clawing at the soil. A small metal box, wrapped in layers of plastic. No lock, just a simple clasp.
My heart pounded. With trembling fingers, I opened it.
Inside lay a folder of documents and several sealed envelopes. The thickest one bore Christophers handwriting: “For Nicky.”
I tore it open. Not just wordsour entire life with Margaret, seen through his eyes. Years of manipulation, financial control, psychological abuse.
*”…she made me take out loans in her name, said it was for her treatment. Only recently I found out the money bought a flat she rents out…”*
*”…she forged my signature on a power of attorney. Im scared, Nicky. I dont know what shes capable of. If anything happens to me, dont believe a word she says. All the proof is here…”*
I pulled out more papers. Loan agreements with forged signatures. Bank statements showing large sums moved. A copy of another willone I never knew aboutleaving everything to me, including the cottage.
Everything snapped into place. The rushed sale. The ultimatum. Margaret was trying to destroy the one place holding evidence against her.
A rustle behind me.
At the garden gate stood Margaret. No grief, no anger. Just the cold, calculating stare of a hunter cornering prey.
“I knew youd come,” she said calmly. “Give me the box, Veronica. Well part ways amicably.”
Slowly, I stood, clutching the metal case. Mud on my knees, hair wild, but my gaze steady.
“Amicably isnt an option, Margaret.”
First time Id ever called her by her name. Not “Mum,” as shed always insisted. It sounded like a slap.
Her lips twisted into a sneer.
“Did those papers make you brave? Christopher thought he could defy me too. Naïve boy. Always too soft, too *good*.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“He tried to rebel. Found out about the power of attorney, threatened me. I had to *help* him see sense.”
A long silence.
And just like that, something inside me snapped. Grief, fear, confusionall burned away, leaving only clarity. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this woman, compressed into a single point.
Enough.
“I knew youd come too,” I said calmly, pulling out my phone. My hands didnt shake anymore. “While you were walking up, I took photos.”
I turned the screen. Clear shots of the second will and the forged loan agreement.
“Just sent these to our solicitor. Explained about your little sale. He said fraud on this scale is his *speciality*.”
Margarets face shifted. Confidence fractured into confusion.
“What nonsense is this? What solicitor?”
“The one who handled Christophers affairs. Quite surprised to hear youve been using a revoked power of attorney for months.”
I stepped forward, closing the distance. Now it was my turn to advance.
“Oh, and one more thing. I turned on my voice recorder when you entered the garden. Your little confession about *helping* Christopher came through *perfectly*.”
I hit play. Her own voice, tinny but unmistakable: *”…had to help him see sense…”*
Margaret froze. The mask was gone, stripped raw to reveal fury and fear. She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first timenot the meek daughter-in-law, but a threat.
“You” she hissed, but words failed her.
“Game over,” I said. “Two choices. Walk away now, disappear from my life forever. Or I press one more button, and these recordings go straight to the police. Choose.”
For a second, she tried to rally. Straightened her spine, eyes flashing with familiar arrogance.
“Youre nobody,” she spat. “A stupid girl. Youll regret this. Youll beg”
“I wont,” I cut in, my voice calm, empty of fear or hate. Just fact. “You have no power over me. Or Christopher. Hes gone because of your greed
