Grandma didnt have long left, and it was time to sell the house…
When Emily, at twenty-four, decided to stay in her grandfathers cottage, some thought shed lost her mind.
“Young, healthyshe couldve made something of herself in the city! Instead, shes stuck with old folk, a vegetable patch, and pennies,” they muttered in the village shop.
But Emily paid no mind, gathering her groceries and trudging back along the winding country lane. Everyone knew her herethe granddaughter of Arthur Whitmore and Margaret Whitmore, the university girl whod first come for summer break and then never left.
Arthur had grown frail, often forgetting where hed left his glasses or whether hed fed the chickens. Margaret held on stubbornly, but her laboured breath and high blood pressure whispered of times passage.
Emily cooked, cleaned, drove Arthur to hospital appointments, and rose in the dead of night when Margarets chest tightened. The cottage crumbledthe roof leaked, the fireplace crumbledbut Emily, scraping by on remote freelance work and Arthurs meagre pension, began patching it up. The locals sometimes pitched in. They mended the roof. Someone rebuilt the hearth. The next year, she put up a little outbuilding in the back garden and moved in there herself. On the hardest nights, shed stroke the cat, Biscuit, warm her hands by the fire, and think.
One evening, Arthur gazed out the window and said, “Emily, love, youre like a candle in the window. You wont leave us, will you?”
“Where would I go, Grandad?” she answered.
He rummaged in an old drawer and handed her a folder.
“Wrote this up. The house, the land. So no one can take it from you.”
Inside was a will, registered properly at the council officewitnessed, signed, all above board. She nodded and tucked it away.
Arthur Whitmore passed in early March. The funeral was quiet, just neighbours and a few tears. Emilys mother, Helen, lived in London and rarely visited. But then her uncle Simon turned up unannouncedwith his wife, Lydia, and armfuls of gifts. Hed long since settled in a posh estate in Surrey, only remembering his parents on holidays, if at all.
Emily was digging by the greenhouse when Simon stepped out of his car, crisp trainers squeaking, jacket too thin for the chill. Lydia followed, manicured fingers clutching her shoulders.
“Mum!” Simon cried, rushing to Margaret, who stood on the porch with a broom. “Here we arefinally! Been meaning to visit, just couldnt get away.”
He hugged her, kissed her cheek. She gave a flustered smile.
“Come in, then. Well have tea.”
Emily followed. Simon smirked at her, nodding with faint disdain.
“Em, hello. Still here, then?”
In the kitchen, Lydia perched on a chair without removing her coat.
“Mum, its quaint. But freezing. No radiators?”
“Fireplace. Always had one,” Margaret said.
“But how will you manage alone? Its too much.”
“Emily helps,” Margaret waved her off. “Keeps things running.”
Simon glanced at Emily.
“Good on you. But youre young. Dont you get sick of it? Its not even yours.”
Emily met his gaze.
“Funny. Ive been putting money into it like it is. Never saw a penny from you.”
Lydia scoffed.
“Emily, you work remotely. Wheres the investment? Buying groceries doesnt count.”
“I fixed the roof. Rebuilt the fireplace. Put up the outbuilding.”
“An eyesore,” Simon cut in. “Who gave you permission?”
He set his cup down.
“Mum, lets be honest. Its not about Emily. This place is a burden. Middle of nowhere. Sell it. Well find buyers. Youll have moneycome live with us. Were family.”
Emily placed her cup down slowly.
“You didnt visit for five years. Just texts on birthdays. Now suddenly, youre all heart.”
Simon chuckled.
“Not your place to judge, girl. Youre temporary. Grandad took you inbe grateful.”
“Took me in?” Emily stood. “I sat up nights when he couldnt breathe. Changed his sheets. You didnt even call!”
“That doesnt give you rights to the property, clear?”
Margaret snapped, “Enough. No fighting. Im still alive. Nothings being divided.”
But Simon was riled.
“Mum, you know its yours. You own it. Emily shes kind, but what happens next?”
Emily turned to Margaret. The old woman faltered.
“Hes my son. He wants to help. I I dont know what to do. Dont pressure me, Em.”
Lydia added sweetly,
“Emily, really. How long will you stay? Youth wasted on drips and chickens. Its not right. Grow old here?”
Emily walked out.
They stayed for tea.
Days later, Margaret handed her papers.
“I sold the land.”
Emilys ears rang.
“What? To who?”
“Buyers from the next county. Simon handled it.”
“Thats where my outbuilding is!”
“Not registered. Doesnt exist. The lands mine.”
Emily stared.
“You signed because Simon whispered in your ear?”
“He cares. Hes my son. My blood. Youre”
“Im what?”
Margaret looked away, as if forgetting every kindness.
“Im too tired for this. Go.”
“Gran, you trusted me! I looked after you, after Grandad”
“And you lived here! Fed and housed!”
Emily showed her the will. Margaret waved it off.
“Arthur was confused. Means nothing. The house is mine. What can you prove?”
“I live here! Its my home!”
She went to the village solicitor, who said,
“Tricky, but not hopeless. The wills legal if properly witnessed. Prove you maintained the placewitnesses, receipts, everything.”
“Ive got neighbours, the nurse, the council head who witnessed it. Bills for the roof, the fireplace, repairs.”
At the hearing, Simons lawyer argued,
“No deed. The will wasnt notarised. And the property belongs to Margaret Whitmore.”
“But did the claimant live there? Invest in it?” the judge asked.
“Well out of kindness. No obligation.”
“Clarify: who paid for repairs? Who lived there? Who provided care?”
The case rolled on.
Two months later, the court granted Emily rights to the land in the will. The sale was voided. Simon had to refund the buyers.
And Margaret?
“Emily, love forgive me. I didnt know he was mixed up with crooks. Wanted whats best…”
“You sold my home, Gran. If you wanted whats best, youd have spoken to me. Not to those who forgot you for twenty years.”
“Lets make it right. Ill sign it over. Properly. Just dont be cross with an old woman.”
They went to the council office. Done quickly.
Emily began repairs again. The council ran a gas line. Margaret sat by the window, stroking Biscuit.
“Youre strong, Emily. Not like my son. Thought he was clever. Turns out hes rotten. Raised him wrong, I suppose.” Tears welled.
Two weeks later, Simon appeared with papers.
“Im contesting the transfer. She wasnt in her right mind. Im her sonI have a claim.”
The case was brief. Emily brought a doctors note: Margaret had been lucid, willing. The court dismissed Simons claim.
Emily stepped onto the porch, gazing at the cottage, the garden, the cherry tree. Shed always known this was home. Now, her heart was at peace.
She smiled and tied her scarf.
So much still to do.
