The old Whitaker house greeted Emma with a stale smell and a hush that seemed to have settled over the rooms for decades. She flung the windows wide, letting the warm May sunshine spill in, carrying the faint perfume of hawthorn blossoms. A month had passed since Grandfather James Whitakers funeral, and only now had Emma found the resolve to travel back and sort through his belongings.
James had been more than a grandfather to her. When her parents died early, he stepped in, raised her, and gave her a foothold in the world. In recent years their meetings had grown scarcehis work at the county council kept him busy, and the rush of everyday life left little room for visits. Standing in the sittingroom, where every object whispered his name, Emma chastised herself for the days they had lost.
A sharp ring cut the silence.
Emma, have you started? asked Aunt Margarets voice, unusually gentle. Edward and I will be there tomorrow to help with the furniture. Dont touch anything valuable until we arrive, alright?
Of course, Aunt Margaret, Emma replied, her eyes resting on the grandfathers sideboard that held a collection of sea shells. Im only sorting papers and things.
Good. After the reading of the will there was a bit of awkwardness dont be upset that Granddad left you just the books and the piano. He merely wanted to be fair.
Emma pressed her lips together. The solicitor had read the will after the funeral: the house and the bulk of the estate were to be divided between Margaret and her brother Edward. Emma received only the books, an old upright piano and a set of engraved pocket watchestreasured by her, yet of little material worth.
Everythings fine, Aunt Margaret. I dont need anything else, she said.
Exactly! You have your own flat now. Edward and I could use the cottage for the summer monthsgarden season is coming. See you tomorrow!
She hung up and let out a heavy sigh. Grandfather James had often said the house would be hers. Who else will look after it if not you, my dear? Only you understand what family walls mean. It seemed he had altered his decision at the last moment. He was within his rights.
The whole day Emma spent among the books. Each volume held a memory: the battered fairytale collection he used to read to her at night, the school textbooks where he, a former teacher, helped her with maths, letters tucked between pages, dried flowers, old photographs, and notes in his neat hand.
By evening she reached his study. The small room, its heavy desk and floortoceiling shelves, had always felt special. As a child, James had forbidden her entry without a knockcalling it his creative laboratory. Here he penned his memoirs, kept diaries, and sorted archives.
Emma turned the pages of aged notebooks, yellowed envelopes, and in the lower drawer of the desk she found a bundle of letters tied with twineletters from her grandmother, a woman Emma had never known. Beside them lay a worn leather diary. Opening it, she read a note dated the previous year: Call S.P. about the new will. Destroy the old one.
Her heart skipped. A new will? The solicitor, Thomas Harding, had presented only one document.
Methodically she searched each drawer and file. Behind a stack of old newspapers in the sideboard she discovered an envelope stamped: Will. Copy. Original with solicitor S.P. The date on the envelope was a month before Jamess death.
With trembling hands Emma drew out the paper and began to read. In this second testament James bequeathed the house, the surrounding land and all valuable items to her, Emma. His children, Margaret and Edward, were to receive monetary compensation.
This decision is not born of favouring one heir over another, James wrote, but of keeping the family nest intact. Emma alone values this house not as mere property but as the heart of our lineage. I trust she will preserve it for future generations.
Emma sank into the grandfathers armchair, unable to grasp what she read. Why had this second will never been presented? Did the solicitor know? What now?
That night she lay awake on the old bed in what had been her childhood room, weighing her options. Presenting the will would spark a scandal. Margaret and Edward had already plotted how to split the land. Their visits to Granddad had always been occasional, never close. Yet did that make their claim any less legitimate?
At dawn, the clatter of an engine announced Aunt Margarets arrival. She burst into the house, voice booming, energy unfurling.
Emma, weve come with Lucy, she said, gesturing to her daughter, who shuffled in the hallway with a sour expression. Well see what can be taken right now. Edward will bring the movers later.
Good morning, Emma forced a smile. I havent finished sorting
No worries, well help! Margaret was already moving from room to room, eyeing the furniture. Ill take that sideboard and the bedroom chest. You alright with that, Lucy?
Lucy shrugged. I dont mind, Mum. Im only here for Granddads coin collection, as you promised.
Of course, of course! Emma, wheres the coin collection? He saved those all his life, you know, for Lucys keepsake.
Emma felt a surge of anger. The numismatic collection had been Granddads pride; he had shown her each new coin, explained its story. Now it was destined for Lucy, who had turned up at the funeral looking disgruntled, as if a piece of her own heritage had been ripped away.
Aunt Margaret, Emma began cautiously, did you speak to Mr. Harding after the will was read?
Margaret halted, turning sharply. Thomas Harding? No, why?
Its just I think somethings off with the will, Emma said.
What do you mean? Margaret narrowed her eyes.
I found a mention of another will, a later one, Emma replied.
A heavy silence fell. Lucy set the sideboard aside and turned toward them.
What nonsense is that? Margaret finally snapped, but her voice trembled. There was only one will, thats what was read.
I think we should call Thomas Harding, Emma said firmly. I have a copy of another document.
Margarets face paled. Emma, listen why stir this up? Father made his choice; everything was divided fairly. You got the things he loved mostbooks, pianohe knew you love music.
Its not about the items, Margaret snapped. Its about Granddads last wish. If he changed his mind, we must honour it.
Changed his mind? Margaret laughed bitterly. He spent his whole life thinking of you! Your parents died, tragedy, of course. But why did he always put you above his own children? Were we strangers to him?
Emma was taken aback by the sudden accusation.
I never asked for special treatment
You didnt ask! You were always there. We have our own lives, our own worries. We couldnt sit with him all the time.
Mother, calm down, Lucy interjected. If theres another will, let the lawyers sort it out.
The front door opened and Uncle Edward stepped in, a broad-shouldered man with an uncanny likeness to James.
Whats all this fuss about? he asked, scanning the tense faces.
Emma found another will, Margaret blurted. She says Granddad left everything to her.
Edward lowered himself into a chair. Is that so?
There was no surprise in his tone, just weariness. Emma looked straight at him. Did you know about it?
James mentioned he wanted to change the will, Edward sighed. Said the house should stay whole, not be split. He said only you truly loved it.
And you kept quiet? Margaret shouted, affronted. Traitor!
Dont shout, Margaret, Edward replied wearily. I didnt know whether he had actually drawn up a new will or was just thinking about it. Either way, the house needs constant upkeep. Its an asset for us to sell, not a memory for Emma.
So youre on her side? Margaret gestured wildly. Wonderful! Lets give the whole lot to the girl and well be left with nothing!
Mother, stop, Lucy rolled her eyes. Uncles right. We dont need the house; you said youd sell it and buy a flat in town.
Emma listened to the backandforth, feeling detached. To them the house was a piece of real estate, a commodity. To her it was a world of scents, sounds, and recollections.
I propose this, Emma said finally. We call Thomas Harding and confirm the situation. If Granddads last wish really was to leave the house to me, I will pay you both a fair compensation for your shareslater, in instalments if needed.
What compensation? Margaret scoffed. On your modest librarians salary?
I could take out a loan, or sell my flat, Emma answered calmly.
Enough, Mother, Lucy intervened. Lets just phone the solicitor.
Thomas Harding agreed to come at once. Within an hour the elderly solicitor sat at the teatable, his briefcase beside him, looking over the gathered family with a measured stare.
So youve discovered a second will, he observed after Emma explained. He examined the copy, checked dates and signatures.
Yes, this is a genuine copy, he concluded. James Whitaker did indeed draft a new testament shortly before his death.
Why wasnt it presented? Margaret demanded.
Harding removed his spectacles, rubbing his nose. A week before he died, James called me. He said he wanted to cancel the earlier will. He arranged a meeting, but he passed away before it could take place.
So his final intention was to revert to the first version? Edward asked.
I cant say for certain, Harding replied cautiously. He didnt give reasons over the phone, only that he didnt wish to cause family strife.
Emma felt tears well up. Even at the end, Granddad thought of them, of keeping peace even at his own expense.
Legally, Harding continued, the last will that was properly executed and not officially revoked is the one that standsthis one that leaves the house to you, Emma. But
But what? Margaret pressed.
But if you contest it on the basis of his phone call, the matter could drag on for years. No one wins except the lawyers.
A heavy silence fell. Emma stared out the window at the ancient apple tree that James had planted before she was born. Each spring it burst into white blossoms, filling the garden with a sweet scent. He had often said, As long as the apple tree blooms, the house lives on.
I wont push the second will, Emma said suddenly, turning to her relatives. Let things stay as they are.
Youre giving up the house? Lucy asked, surprised.
No, Emma shook her head. I propose a different solution. The house remains jointly owned. Nobody sells it. I will stay here, keep it in order, and you may visit any timesummer, weekends, holidaysas a true family home.
Why would you do that? Margaret asked, bewildered. Why share when the law could make it all yours?
Because Granddad wanted us to be a family, Emma replied simply. He feared inheritance would tear us apart and was ready to change his last wishes for that reason. I want to honour his desire.
Edward looked at his niece for a long moment, then nodded slowly. I agree. Thats right.
Margaret lingered, torn between the lure of cash and the vague, comforting thought that Emma offered something more valuable.
But who will foot the upkeep? Repairs? she asked finally.
Ill cover the main costs, Emma assured. Youll have a tidy, readymade home to return to. The only condition is that no one ever forces a sale.
What if I need money urgently? Margaret pressed.
Then Ill buy out your share, piece by piece, over time. The house will stay a house.
Lucy laughed lightly. Granddad would have liked that. He always said Emma was the wisest of us.
Harding observed the settlement with interest. I can draft the necessary agreement, making it legally sound and in line with James Whitakers wishes.
By evening, the papers were signed, the initial tension eased. They sat on the garden veranda with tea, reminiscing. Edward recounted how he and his father had built the veranda; Margaret spoke of her mothers pies; Lucy chuckled at stories of Granddads youthful antics.
Emma watched them and felt she had reclaimed far more than a property. She had reclaimed a family. If compromise was the price, it was a fair one.
When the relatives departed, she stepped into the garden. The apple tree was in full blossom, its white petals drifting to the ground. Birds sang overhead. The house seemed to breathe.
Thank you, Granddad, Emma thought, eyes lifted to the sky. I understand now. True inheritance isnt in walls or trinkets; it lives in the people who remember and love each other.
From her pocket she drew the folded copy of the second will. Perhaps one day she would show it to her own children and tell them this tale. Not now. For the moment, preserving what truly mattereda beloved home, family memory, and peace among kinwas enough.
