The solicitors office was stuffy, even though a June breeze still lingered outside. I ran a hand along the crease of my trousers, trying not to meet the eyes of Claire or Lucy. My sisters arrived on time, each in her own way: Claire in a sharp blazer, phone glued to her hand, and Lucy in a light sweater, her face warm as if shed just dropped in for tea. I noticed how they chose their seats Claire sat by the door, back straight, staring out the window; Lucy drifted toward the coffee table piled with wellworn magazines.
The city outside roared with traffic, horns blaring in the jam, yet here time seemed to slow. A thick, strained silence settled between the sisters; we all knew why we were there, but none of us dared to speak first.
I glanced at the door of the solicitors room. Behind it lay a piece of our past the cottage our parents owned, where wed spent every summer together. After Mums death the house had stood empty for years. Wed all grown up, started families, taken on our own responsibilities. Now the decision made in that room would decide whether we kept a shared place or finally drifted apart.
When the clerk invited us in, Claire was the first to rise, letting out a barely audible sigh. Sunlight streamed through the large windows that looked onto a green square. On the desk lay neat folders and a long wooden pen.
The solicitor greeted each of us by name, calm and businesslike, explained the procedure and reminded us that written consent was required. The documents had been prepared in advance; she doublechecked our surnames and asked to see our passports. Everything proceeded formally and quickly almost like sitting an exam.
The line that stuck with me was: The cottage at Ashford Wood passes into joint ownership of the three daughters in equal shares. Claire furrowed her brow slightly, Lucy dropped her gaze. No one objected out loud.
After the signatures, the solicitor outlined our rights: each sister could now deal with her share according to the law. Any alteration would need the consent of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth window was set for the inheritance to become official, but in practice everything hinged on our own agreement.
Back in the corridor, the evening light striped through the glass. I felt a weariness settle over me, as if something important had been left behind and the future stretched out unknown.
Lucy broke the silence first as we stepped outside:
Maybe we should head to the cottage? See whats there
Claire shrugged:
I can only make it this weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
I thought about the hectic week awaiting me at the office. Saying no now would feel like admitting defeat before the battle even began.
Lets try to go together, I said slowly. We need to get a feel for what were dealing with.
Claire lowered her head:
Id just sell it all straight away, she whispered. Well never agree on how to use it What about the taxes?
Lucys face lit up:
Sell? Thats the only place Mums strawberries are still growing!
So what? Were not children any more, Claire cut in. Wholl look after it? Wholl pay for repairs?
The familiar tension rose again each of us pulling in a different direction, each with a valid reason. I recalled summer evenings on the porch, when the biggest argument had been who would wash the dishes or where to stash apricot jam from the orchard. Now the disputes were adult: taxes and shares instead of compotes and sandboxes.
Perhaps we could tidy it up, put a little money in, and rent it out in summer? Split the income fairly, I suggested finally.
Claire looked at me closely:
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Lucy interjected:
Id come up now and then with my son maybe a week each summer. I dont need any rent.
The conversation spun in circles alternating ideas of rotating residence, joint living, letting strangers or neighbours stay, undertaking a full renovation or merely patching the roof before the season, selling to an outsider or listing the whole property. Old grievances resurfaced without warning: who had poured money into it first, who had tended Mum in her final days, who had once repainted the shutters without asking.
The talk grew sharp and brief. We reached no compromise, only agreeing to meet at the cottage in two days each of us interpreting that as a chance to persuade the others or at least to state our position clearly.
The cottage greeted us with the scent of damp earth after a night rain and the sharp whine of a neighbours mower. The house looked much as it always had: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees clinging to the windows, an old bench by the shed with a crack in one leg.
Inside it was still stale despite the windows being flung open. Mosquitoes lazily circled a thickglass vase that Mum had once bought at the local hardware store. We moved through the rooms in silence: Claire inspected the meters and windows, Lucy immediately started unpacking a box of books in the bedroom corner, I checked the gas cooker and fridge both worked only intermittently.
The argument ignited almost as soon as we finished the walkthrough:
This place is falling apart, Claire snapped. We need a full renovation! That costs money
Lucy shook her head:
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage is alive while we visit together!
I tried to mediate:
We could fix what we can right now, I offered. Deal with the rest later, in detail
But the compromise was an illusion; each of us held fast to our stance till night fell. By evening we barely spoke to one another. Lucy tried to make dinner from the scant grain and tinned goods left in the pantry, I watched the news on my phone the signal only reached the kitchen window, Claire flipped through work documents beside the kettle.
At eight oclock darkness settled; the porch light flickered out with a loud click. Heavy grey clouds gathered over the garden.
A sudden storm rolled in faster than any of us expected the first thunderclap sounded as we were already pulling apart to retire for the night. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain hammered the roof so loudly we had to raise our voices just to be heard inside.
Midway down the hallway a strange sound rose a splash mixed with the creak of floorboards overhead. Water streamed in a thin ribbon down the wall beside the bookcase. Lucy was the first to shout:
Theres a leak! Look!
I sprinted for a bucket in the shed. At first I couldnt find it among the old jam jars. After digging out a plastic tub with a handle, I hurried back in as the rain intensified and water began to pour faster.
Claire grabbed a mop, trying to steer the stream away from the sockets. Short bursts of light illuminated the rooms, shadows dancing on the ceiling. The air filled with the sharp smell of ozone, wet wood, something metallic.
Claire turned sharply to us:
This is a family nest! You cant live here or rent it out like this!
No one argued any longer; we were all busy clearing books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it became clear that if we didnt stop the leak now, wed have to replace half the furniture in the morning.
In that moment the earlier grievances seemed trivial. The solution emerged on its own: find material for a temporary fix right there and then.
When the water finally stopped dripping from the ceiling, the house seemed to exhale along with Claire, Lucy, and me. A halffilled bucket sat by the bookcase, the rug was damp at the edges, books were stacked against the wall, and the corridor reeked of wet timber. Outside, the rain eased, a few drops pattered on the sill.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked at my sisters: Claire crouched by an outlet, checking that water hadnt reached it; Lucy sat on the stairs clutching an old towel theyd grabbed as a rag. The only sound was the wind rattling the shed door.
We need to sort the roof now, Claire said, weary. Otherwise the next rain will do the same.
I nodded:
Theres roofing felt and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Lucy stood up:
Ill help. Just hand me the lantern its dark in there.
The shed was cool and smelled of earth. I fumbled for the old headlamp; the batteries were low, the light flickered across the walls. The felt was heavier than wed imagined. Lucy held nails in her palm, Claire grabbed the hammer the same one Dad once used on the garden gate.
Time was short; the rain could return at any moment. We climbed onto the loft through the narrow crawlspace behind the kitchen. It was hot, the air thick with dust and the smell of years gone by.
We worked in silence. I held the felt while Claire hammered it onto the boards the hammers clang echoed in the cramped space. Lucy passed the nails, mumbling under her breath, either counting blows or simply fighting fatigue.
Through the gaps the night sky could be seen clouds drifting over the garden, the moon casting pale light on the wet apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Claire called. If its not secure the wind will rip it off first.
I pressed the edge of the sheet harder.
Lucy broke into a laugh:
Well, at least weve finally done something together
The laugh sounded warm, unexpected the first genuine laugh of the day.
I felt the tension drain away, my back finally relaxing now that I could breathe a little easier.
Maybe thats how it should be, I said quietly. Fix whats broken together.
Claire looked at me, not angry but tired.
It wont work any other way
We finished quickly, securing the last strip of felt and climbing down.
The kitchen was cool; the window left open after the storm. The sisters gathered around the table: someone put a kettle on the stove, another found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.
I brushed hair from my forehead and studied them now without the edge of irritation.
Well still have to keep negotiating, I said. This repair is just the start.
Lucy smiled:
I dont want to lose the cottage. She shrugged lightly. And I dont want us fighting over it.
Claire sighed:
Im scared of being left alone with all the upkeep. She looked at the table. But if we do it together maybe itll work.
A pause settled over us; outside the wind rustled through leaves, a dog barked faintly in the distance.
Lets not put this off any longer, I said, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag. Well draw up a calendar who can come when during the summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Lucy brightened:
I can take the first week of July.
Claire thought:
August works better for me the kids are free then.
I wrote the dates, drawing lines between weeks; gradually a grid of possible visits and duties appeared on the page.
We argued over the small things wholl come for the May bank holiday next year, how to split the cost of the mower and electricity, what to do with the apples in autumn. But now the disputes lacked bitterness only a desire to sort things out and not lose each other.
The night passed peacefully; no one woke from the sound of water or wind. Morning light streamed through the open windows; the garden glittered with dew on the apple leaves and the grass along the path to the gate.
I rose before my sisters and stepped onto the porch, my bare feet feeling the cool boards. A neighbours voice drifted over the fence, chatting about the weather and the harvest.
In the kitchen the smell of fresh coffee filled the air; Lucy had brewed a pot and laid out a slice of storebought bread.
Claire entered last, hair tied back, eyes a little sleepy but calm.
We ate together, passing the bread and talking about the days plans without rush or irritation.
Well need another roll of roofing felt, Claire noted. We barely made it through today.
And a new light for the porch, Lucy added. I almost fell last night out there.
I smiled:
Ill note everything in our repair calendar
The sisters exchanged glances; any lingering resentment seemed gone.
The cottage stood quieter than usual; through the open doors came the chatter of neighbours and the clink of dishes. The house felt alive again not just because the roof no longer leaked, but because all three of us were there: each with our habits and frailties, now working as a unit rather than apart.
Before we left we walked through the rooms once more, shutting windows, checking sockets, clearing away the leftover building supplies on the loft. On the kitchen table lay the sheet with the coloured dates and notes on needed purchases.
Claire placed the house keys neatly on the shelf by the door:
So well touch base next week? Ill get a quote for the roof from a builder I know
Lucy nodded:
Ill pop round next week to check on the strawberries. Ill give you a call first.
I lingered in the hallway a little longer, looked at my sisters and said softly:
Thank you for last night and for today.
They looked back, their eyes calm and open, the old shadows of doubt gone.
When the gate shut behind us, the garden was dry after the night rain; the path gleamed in the sun. The calendar on the table bore our names beside the dates of future visits a small promise that we wouldnt let each other slip away even through the toughest summer.
