**Diary Entry 12th April**
A year ago, I lost my husband. Today, a delayed email from him arrived with just one line: *”Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”*
The notification chimed on my laptop, making Charlotte flinch.
Exactly one year. Minute for minute. A year since that phone call that split my life in two.
On the screen, a single line glowed: *”Scheduled Delivery. From: Daniel Whitmore.”*
My fingers went numb. His name had no right to appear there. It felt like a cruel, twisted joke.
With trembling hands, I opened it. Almost no textjust one sentence, seared into my mind like a branding iron:
*”Lottie, if youre reading this, it means the worst has happened. 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 shattered the silence. There she stoodmy mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. Her face was a mask of rehearsed grief, a plastic container of food in her hands.
*”Charlotte, darling,”* her voice dripped with false sympathy. *”I thought youd be alone today. Came to check on you.”*
She walked straight into the kitchen without invitation, setting the container on the table. I closed the door behind her, the laptop with Daniels email burning against my back.
*”Ive been thinking,”* Margaret began, surveying the room. *”We should sell the cottage.”*
I froze. *Our* cottage. The place Daniel and I had loved. Where that old apple tree still stood.
*”Sell it?”* My voice sounded foreign to me. *”Why?”*
*”What good is it to you now?”* She waved a dismissive hand. *”Too much hassle for one person, and I could use the extra money. Besides, its painfultoo many memories of Daniel.”*
Her words were logical. Reasonable. But as I studied her, I didnt see a grieving mother. I saw a predator, circling.
*”Ive already found a buyer,”* she added casually. *”Solid offer. Cash in hand. We cant dawdle.”*
*”I… need time to think,”* I forced out.
Her face hardened. The mask slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
*”Whats there to think about? Letting our family home rot? Letting strangers tear it apart?”* She stepped closer, eyes boring into mine. *”The paperworks ready. Ten tomorrow at the solicitors. Just sign and its done. Dont make me beg.”*
It wasnt a request. It was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystalline clarity, I understoodDaniel had sent that email to warn me.
He *knew*. Knew something about his mother. About that cottage.
*”Fine,”* I whispered, my insides turning to ice. *”Ill be there.”*
Margaret smiled victoriously, the mask sliding back into place. *”Good girl. Its for the best.”*
When the door clicked shut, I went to the key rack. A single key dangled there, its fob shaped like a tiny apple.
The cottage key. The key to whatever Daniel had left me.
I barely slept that night. His words and Margarets threats twisted together like thorns. By dawn, I knew I wouldnt be meeting any solicitor.
At six, my car sped down the empty motorway, the morning mist clinging to the trees.
At nine sharp, my phone rang. Margaret. I ignored it. A text followed: *”Where are you? Were waiting.”*
No reply.
The cottage stood weathered, its windows boarded, the air thick with damp and decaying leaves. Every corner whispered Daniels namethe bench hed built, the path to the river where wed walked. In the shed, I found a shovel, rusted but sturdy.
The old apple tree stood at the far end of the garden, gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky. I drove the shovel into the earth.
The digging was brutal. Roots fought back, stones dulled the blade. My phone buzzed again. This time, I answered.
*”Charlotte, what game are you playing?”* Margarets voice was glacial. *”The solicitor wont wait forever.”*
*”Im not coming,”* I panted.
*”What do you mean? Ive spent six months arranging this!”*
Silence. I kept digging.
*”Youll regret this, girl. Deeply.”*
The line went dead.
The threat only fueled me. I dug like a woman possessed. Then*clang*. Metal on metal.
I dropped to my knees, clawing at the dirt. A small steel box, wrapped in plastic. No lock, just a simple latch.
My heart hammered as I lifted the lid.
Inside: a folder of documents, sealed envelopes. The thickest bore Daniels handwriting: *”For Lottie.”*
I tore it open. Not just wordsour entire life with Margaret, seen through Daniels eyes. Years of manipulation, forged signatures, coerced loans.
*”…she made me take out loans in her name. Said it was for her treatment. Only later I learned it bought her a rental flat…”*
*”…she forged my signature on a power of attorney. Im scared, Lottie. If something happens to me, dont trust her. The proof is all here…”*
Bank statements. Loan agreements. A copy of Daniels real willleaving everything, including the cottage, solely to me.
It all made sense now. The rush to sell. The ultimatum. She was trying to bury the evidence.
A rustle behind me.
Margaret stood at the garden gate. No grief. No anger. Just the calculating stare of a hunter cornering prey.
*”Knew youd come,”* she said smoothly. *”Give me the box, Charlotte. Walk away, and well call it even.”*
I stood, mud-streaked, clutching the metal box.
*”Even isnt an option, Margaret.”*
First time Id ever used her nameno *”Mum,”* no pleasantries. It landed like a slap.
Her lips twisted. *”Daniel thought he could defy me too. Pathetic boy. Always too soft.”*
A step closer. Her voice dropped, almost conversational.
*”He found out about the forgery. Started making threats. So I… helped him see reason.”*
The word *”helped”* hung in the air like poison.
And just like that, something in me snapped. Grief, fearall burned away. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this woman, condensed into a single, white-hot truth:
*Enough.*
*”I knew youd come too,”* I said calmly, pulling out my phone. *”While you were walking up, I took photos. Sent them to our solicitor. Fraud, forgeryhis* favourite *cases.”*
I turned the screen. The will. The loan papers.
Margarets confidence flickered. *”What solicitor?”*
*”Daniels. He was* very *surprised youd been arranging a sale behind my back using a revoked power of attorney.”*
I stepped closer. Now *I* was advancing.
*”Oh, and one more thing.”* I tapped my phone. A tinny recording played: *”…helped him see reason…”*
Margaret froze. The mask crumbled completely, revealing raw furyand fear.
*”You have two choices,”* I said. *”Leave now, vanish from my life forever. Or I press send, and this goes to the police.”*
For a second, she tried to rally. Chin up, eyes blazing.
*”Youre nobody,”* she spat. *”Youll regret”*
*”I regret nothing,”* I cut in, voice steady. *”You have no power over me. Or Daniel. Not anymore.”*
The final blow. She deflated, a pricked balloon. All that remained was a frightened old woman, caught in her own lies.
With one last venomous glare, she turned and left. No grand exit. Just silence.
Later, I sat on the damp grass, the box in my lap. The adrenaline faded, leaving hollow clarity.
This was Daniels last gift. The truth.
Two weeks later, the solicitor called. *”Its done. Margaret signed everythingthe cottage, the flat, all claims to Daniels estate. No fuss. I doubt well hear from her again.”*
*”Thank you,”* I said.
That same day, I returned to the cottagenot to dig, but to heal. Secateurs in hand, I pruned the apple tree, cleared the weeds, tended the soil. Physical work, grounding.
By evening, exhausted, I sat on Daniels bench. The cottage wasnt a place of grief anymore. It was a fortress. A victory.
The future no longer terrified me. It
