Youre not familyyouve got no rights here, hissed Alice at her fathers funeral, lips curled like a trapped wasp. The words slithered through the murmurs of mourners, sharp as broken glass.
Emily flinched, clutching white lilies like a shield. The coffin gleamed under chapel lights, her adopted father, Arthur Whitmore, lying still in the suit shed chosen. Around them, whispers and stifled sobs swirled, but Alices glare cut through it all.
Please, Alice, Emily murmured, not today.
*My* father, Alice snapped. Blood. And you? Just some stray he took in.
Emily laid the lilies by the coffin, throat tight. Arthurs hands were folded, face peacefulas if hed simply dozed off mid-sentence. But hed never wake, never tousle her hair again, never call her love in that gravelly voice.
Girls, enough, clucked Aunt Margaret, a neighbour with a lace hankie. This isnt the time.
Alice waved her off. Im just setting the record straight.
Emily stepped back, a ghost among these peopleneighbours, Arthurs old colleagues, distant cousins. All here for him. All making her feel like an intruder.
Em, you alright? Sarah, her workmate, squeezed her arm.
Thanks for coming.
Whys Alice staring daggers?
She thinks I shouldnt be here.
Sarah scoffed. Rubbish! You lived with Arthur since you were five.
Emily nodded, swiping tears. She remembered the orphanagethe stale biscuits, the chipped dolls. Then Arthur, broad-shouldered, smelling of pipe smoke, leading her to a yellow-walled bedroom. *This is yours now.*
Emily, Alice beckoned, suddenly sweet, steering her into the empty vestry.
What?
The will. The house in Kensington, the cottage in Cornwalltheyre mine. Legal heir and all that.
Emily blinked. She hadnt thought of wills, only of arranging the wake, the flowers.
Alice, not now
Now. So theres no confusion. No will means it goes to blood. Youre neither.
He adopted me. Its documented.
Alice sneered. Out of pity. And now youll leech off me? That Kensington flats worth a fortune.
I dont want the flat. Just his books. His photos.
Sure. Till you lawyer up.
Emilys fists clenched. Thirty years in this family, calling Arthur *Dad*, tolerating Alices jabs. And now? A charity case.
Fine, she whispered. Do what you want. Just bury him properly.
*Youre* lecturing me on burying *my* father?
I cared for him. You visited once a month.
Alice flushed. Im his *real* daughter. Youre just some orphan!
The words stung worse than a slap. Emily turned, fleeing to the chapel where Arthur lay.
The wake was held at a dim-lit pub near Highgate Cemetery. Emily had taken a loanAlice hadnt offered a penny. Over shepherds pie, old Mr. Thompson from next door chuckled.
Remember when Arthur brought Emily home? Tiny thing, all ribs and fright. He scooped her up and said, Now Ive got two girls.
Alice sniffed. Dad was soft-hearted.
Nah, Mr. Thompson said. Loved her same as you, Alice.
Aunt Margaret nodded. When Emily had pneumonia, he barely slept. Sat by her bed for days.
Emily wept silently. Arthur *had* loved her. School uniforms, maths homework, walking her down the aisleeven when her marriage crumbled, hed been there.
Alice cornered her after. Show me this *will*.
Emily handed it over. Arthur had split everythingsigned a year ago, after his heart attack.
Alices jaw tightened. Ill contest it. Prove he wasnt sound.
He was *fine*.
Well see. And dont even think of going to the house. Ive changed the locks.
Emily gaped. My things are there!
Boxed on the porch. Want them? Sue me.
The solicitors office smelled of stale coffee. Contestings tricky, the lawyer droned. Unless you prove coercion or incapacity.
Emily left, heavy-hearted. She didnt want a feud. But Arthur had chosen this. For *her*.
Alone on the Tube, she fingered the will. Alice was wrong. Family wasnt just bloodit was the man whod given a lost girl a home. And shed fight for it.
For Arthur.
