You should be grateful we even put up with you, Sophie said at the festive table, her voice a thin ribbon of sarcasm.
Is that it? Marian Clarke snatched the corner of the modest gift bag with two fingers, her tone dripping with disgust. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, look at this generosity.
Marian, stop it, Dorothy Clarke, the birthday matriarch, pressed her lips together, a cold approval flashing in her eyes. Sophie was trying.
Sophie, trying? the sisterinlaw laughed, throwing the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the nearest charity shop? She could have been a bit more generousshe lives here on everything readymade, pays not a penny for the mortgage.
Marian felt a blush flood her cheeks. She stood at the covered table shed been setting since dawn, feeling like a misbehaving schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, Tommy, curled beside her, eyes dropping to the plate. He understood everything.
I thought it was practical, Marian whispered, not looking up. The old ones are completely worn out
Practical? Sophie persisted, leaning back in her chair. She was the younger sister of Marians late husband, Andrew, bright and forever convinced of her own superiority. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. There would be more space in this house.
The only sound that broke the heavy silence was the clatter of a fork dropping from Tommys hand. The boy sprang up and fled the room without a word. Marian shivered, reaching to follow, but the authoritative voice of her motherinlaw stopped her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve spoiled the boy; any little thing and he bursts into tears. A man should grow up, not behave like a girl.
Marian sat, feeling an icy numbness settle inside her. She stared at the empty chair where Andrew had sat five years ago. He would never have spoken to her like that; a single look from him would have put Sophie in her place. But Andrew was gone. She was alone in this vast, foreign house, where every slice of bread seemed to demand a payment of humiliation.
The celebration was hopelessly ruined. Guestsdistant relatives and neighbourspretended nothing had happened, but their conversations grew quieter, and their glances at Marian were full of awkward sympathy. She smiled mechanically, poured juice into glasses, cleared empty plates. She longed for the day to end.
When the last guests departed, Sophie, already gathering her husband and daughter, halted at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not saying this out of malice, she said, tone leaving no room for protest. I speak what I think. You should be grateful we even tolerate you after everything. For Andrews memory, and for Mothers sake.
The door slammed. Marian was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Dorothy slipped silently into her bedroom, saying nothing. Fatigue settled on Marian like a lead weight. She sank onto a stool and wept silently, head resting on her handsnot from resentmentshe was almost used to it, but from helplessness.
Late that night, after the kitchen was cleared, she slipped into Tommys room. He lay awake, facing the wall.
Tommy, are you sleeping? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why doesnt Aunt Sophie like us? he asked without turning.
Marian brushed his hair, searching for words. How could she explain the suffocating web of family ties to a child?
She isnt angry, dear she just has a difficult temperament. She misses Dad a lotjust like we do.
Dad would have scolded her, Tommy declared confidently. He wouldnt have let her hurt you.
Yes, he wouldnt have, Marian agreed, a new knot forming in her throat. Sleep now, love. School is tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no room of her own. After Andrews death, she and Tommy lived in what had been his childhood bedroomsmall and cramped. Their former master bedroom now stood empty; Dorothy had turned it into a memory room, everything left as it was when Andrew lived. Only Dorothy was allowed inside.
The house, once warm and spacious, had become Marians golden cage. It belonged to Andrews parents. After her fatherinlaw died, Dorothy became the sole proprietor. Marian, Andrew, and little Tommy had lived there from the start; Andrew never wanted his ageing mother alone. He worked hard, earned well, and his earnings covered everyone. When he was gone, the modest savings ran out quickly. Marian, a trained accountant who hadnt worked in years, took a parttime callcentre job to pick up Tommy from school. The pay was tiny, swallowed by Tommys clothes, school fees, and everyday costs. They survived on Dorothys allowance, and Sophie used that as her trump card.
The next morning Dorothy behaved as if the previous nights argument never existed. She sipped coffee at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand.
Good morning, Marian said quietly, setting a pot of porridge on the stove for Tommy.
Dorothy nodded without looking up.
Im off to a friends cottage for a couple of days. The food is in the fridge, look after the house, and dont forget to water the flowers in the sitting room.
Will do, Dorothy.
When Dorothys door clicked shut, Marian breathed freely for the first time in ages. Two days of silence, two days without sharp looks and poisonous remarks.
She walked Tommy to school and returned to the empty house. With a watering can, she tended the many plants Dorothy adored. In the sitting room, on an old dresser, photos lay: a young Andrew, smiling; a tiny picture of Andrew and Sophie as children; and the wedding photo of Andrew and Marian, forever hopeful.
Her gaze fell on the closed door of the former master bedroomthe memory room. She was forbidden to enter, yet curiosity now overrode the rule. The door was unlocked. She slipped inside, listening for any sound. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as left: the double bed with its silk coverlet, the vanity with perfume bottles she never intended to take, Andrews bookshelf.
She ran her fingers over the spines of classic novels, history, and fantasyAndrews favourites. A thick folder, hidden among Tolstoy volumes, caught her eye. She hadnt seen it before. Carefully, she pulled it out and set it on the table. Its cover simply read Documents.
Her heart hammered. Inside were old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, among them, a will drafted by her late fatherinlaw, John Whitaker, six months before his death.
Marian began to read, the lines blurring. In black ink it declared that the house was to be bequeathed not to the widow but to Andrews son, Andrew Jr., with the sole condition that his wife, Dorothy, could reside there for life. No mention of Sophie.
Marian sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. It meant that after Andrews death the sole heir to the house was their son, Tommy. As his legal guardian until adulthood, Marian was the defacto owner. Dorothy had known this all along and kept it hidden.
She placed the folder back, closed the door, and left with a fog in her mind. What now? Bring the will to light? Start a scandal? Face Sophies fury when she learned she had no rights? The thought made Marian uneasy. She wanted no war, only a quiet life for herself and Tommy.
For two days she moved through the house in a dream, mulling the discovery. She could claim her rights, hire a solicitor, prove the will had been concealed. But then what? Live under the same roof with people who would hate her more? Or evict the elderly woman who was Andrews mother? Andrew would never have approved.
When Dorothy returned, Marian greeted her with practiced calm, helped with the bags, poured tea. Dorothy chatted about her friends garden, her voice light, while Marian imagined herself performing a flawless role.
That evening, alone in the kitchen, Marian finally spoke.
Dorothy, we need to talk, she said.
Dorothy raised an eyebrow.
About what?
The house, Marian replied, keeping her voice steady. I know about John Whitakers will.
A long, ringing silence stretched. Dorothy set her cup down slowly, her face hardening.
You rummaged through my things? she asked, voice as cold as ice.
I found the folder accidentally in Andrews memory room, Marian answered.
Dont speak like that! Dorothy snapped. Its my sons room!
Our sons, Marian corrected. My things are still there. That was our bedroom.
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Dorothy finally asked, a metallic edge to her tone. To drive me out? Sell the house and leave?
No. I dont want to sell. This is Tommys househis fathers and grandfathers. I just want the humiliations to stop. I want Sophie to stop treating me and my son as strangers. By law this house is ours.
Dorothy breathed heavily, shoulders slumping.
I did this for the family, she said hoarsely. I didnt want Sophie left with nothing after Im gone. I imagined us all living together as one family.
We never became a family, Dorothy, Marian replied. Its a boarding house where my son and I are squatters. Andrew would never have allowed this. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
Dorothy turned toward the window, her eyes distant.
What will you do?
Nothing, Marian said. The will stays where it is. I wont start legal battles. But I want you to speak to Sophie and change how you treat us. Tommy is your only grandchild; he shouldnt grow up feeling unwanted.
The next day was Saturday. By noon, as always, Sophie arrived with her husband and little daughter. Marian set the table, tension thick in the air. Dorothy sat pale and silent.
Mum, why so sour? Sophie chirped, flopping onto a chair. Did your tenant mood spoil the party again?
Sophie, shut up, Dorothy snapped, sharper than ever before.
Sophie stared, baffled.
Whats that supposed to mean?
I want you to apologise to Marianfor yesterday and everything before, Dorothy said, voice trembling. For everything.
Sophies face stretched.
What? Apologise to her? Mum, are you out of your mind? For what? For speaking the truth?
Its not true, Dorothys voice cracked. Marian and Tommy arent guests. This house belongs to them.
Sophie turned to Marian, then back to her mother, bewilderment turning to anger.
What are you talking about? This is your house! My fathers house!
My father left it to Andrew, Dorothy whispered. Now, after Andrew, it passed to Tommy.
A deathly quiet fell over the kitchen. Sophie’s husband froze with his fork midair. Sophie stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You you knew? she hissed. All this time you kept it hidden? You let us think she was nothing?
I did what I thought was bestfor the family, Dorothy murmured.
For the family?! Sophie shrieked, standing up. All these years of lies! And you, Marian, you knew and kept silent? Playing the poor relative?
I only found out two days ago, Marian replied calmly.
Lying! You conspired! Youre both against me! Sophie snapped, grabbing her bag. Im not staying in this house any longer!
She stormed out, husband trailing behind, the front door slamming shut.
Dorothy collapsed onto a chair, covering her face, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. Tommy, who had been quietly watching, walked over and took Marians hand.
Marian placed a gentle hand on Dorothys shoulder.
Dont cry, Dorothy. It will get better, she said.
Dorothy lifted tearfilled, bewildered eyes.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Marian answered firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Marian didnt know whether she spoke truth or not. She didnt know what tomorrow would bring. But looking at her sons firm grip and at the worn woman who had deceived everyone, Marian felt, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the master of her own house and destiny. The road ahead would be hard, but she now knew she had a right to fight for her place in the sunfor herself and for her son.
