**Diary Entry**
The relatives used to laugh at me for looking after “poor old” Aunt Liz. Their faces fell when the will was read, leaving me all her assets and three houses.
“Off to see your rich aunt again?”
My cousin Sophies voice dripped venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway. I stayed silent. Arguing was pointlessthis was their morning ritual.
“Leave her be, Soph,” Aunt Olivia called lazily from the sitting room. “Shes got her *charity work* to do.”
Their laughter was loud, rehearsed.
“I just promised Aunt Liz Id help with the windows before winter.”
“She probably sealed those windows back in *forty-seven*,” Sophie scoffed, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on an old woman who wont even leave you her holey tights. Now *thats* talent.”
Her eyes raked over my plain coat and shoes.
“Not everyones after an inheritance, Soph.”
“Oh, really? Whats your goal then? Spiritual enlightenment from scrubbing floors in a council flat?”
I grabbed my bagfilled with groceries for Elizabeth and the new book shed asked for.
“My goal is helping someone I care about.”
“Care about?” Aunt Olivia gasped, appearing in the doorway, her face twisted with old resentment. “That *darling* of yours sold Grandpas cottageour family retreatjust to buy herself a shoebox in the city! Shes never given a penny to anyone!”
There it wasthe root of their hatred. The cottage in the Lake District, built by Grandpa for the family, which Elizabeth, as the eldest, inherited and later sold. They called it betrayal.
I studied their faces, contorted with greed and spite. Theyd never tried to understand her reasons. They didnt care about the bond I shared with my great-aunther sharp wit, her stories, the way she taught me the constellations and the songs of birds.
All they saw was an old woman in a worn-out dressing gown.
“Youll see,” Sophie hissed as I left. “Shell leave her flat to some cult. And youll be left with nothing but your *saintly* patience.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Aunt Lizs flat smelled of dried herbs and old books. Everything was simple, spotless. She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Cornish coast, surrounded by documents and a tablet full of spreadsheets.
“Ah, Clara, youre here.” Her eyes brightened. “Just sorting out some old holdings.”
She carefully folded the map, but not before I caught sight of *lease agreements* and *land registry* papers.
“More drama with the relatives?” she asked, sensing my mood.
I shrugged.
“They count pennies, Clara. But they miss what matters.” She took the book Id brought, her face lighting up. “Thank you, love. Youre the only one who knows what I really need.”
A few weeks later, Aunt Olivia called, her voice sickly sweet.
“Clara, darling, hows our dear Elizabeth?”
I stiffened.
“Shes fine, thank you.”
“Listen, Sophies friend is an estate agentinterested in properties in that area. We thought we should *help* Liz sort her affairs. Make sure no one takes advantage.”
Bile rose in my throat.
“I dont think she needs help.”
“But shes *elderly*! You should ask about her willfamily should look out for each other.”
“I wont be asking. Goodbye.”
The next visit, Aunt Liz was agitated.
“A man came todayclaimed he was a surveyor from the insurance company. Asked about ownership, accounts, relatives as if warning me Id be *swindled*.”
My hands froze around the dishes. Olivias scheme was shrewder than Id thought.
Later, I overheard Aunt Liz on the phone, her tone sharp.
“No, Archibald, we wont raise the rent mid-season. Reputation matters more than quick profit.”
She hung up and winked at my surprise.
“Just business, dear.”
The final straw came on my birthday. Aunt Liz met me with trembling hands.
“Sophie visited. Said youre *tired* of me. That youre just waiting for me to die.”
Something inside me shattered. All my kindness dissolved into cold resolve.
“None of thats true. You know that.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I know. But it *hurt*.”
For the first time, she spoke of the past.
“When your grandfather died, Olivias husband demanded his share *immediately*. I begged for timemy money was tied up in land near St Ives. He refused. So I gave him the cottage. And Olivia told everyone I *stole* it.”
Their hatred was built on lies.
“They dont deserve your tears,” I said firmly. “And I wont let them hurt you again.”
The next day, I called Aunt Olivia.
“You wanted answers? Elizabeths unwell. Shes putting her affairs in order. Come tomorrow at sevenbring Sophie.”
“Has she *decided* something?” Greed quivered in her voice.
“Oh, youll find it *very* interesting.”
At seven sharp, they arrived smug as cats.
Elizabeth sat calmly at the table. Beside her was Archibaldtheir solicitor.
“Elizabeth is the sole owner of three cottages in St Ives,” he began. “And her investment portfolio exceeds the value of your home twentyfold.”
Sophies jaw dropped.
“Thisthis must be a mistake,” Olivia whispered.
“I lived as I chose,” Elizabeth said coolly. “Money prefers silence.”
Archibald continued, “Elizabeth is transferring all assetsincluding this flatto Clara. The business holdings as well.”
“But *why her*?” Sophie shrieked.
“Family isnt who counts your pennies before youre cold,” Elizabeth said softly. “Its who brings you medicine in the night.”
She smiled at me. “Clara saw *me*, not my money. She never asked for anything. So she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Olivia screeched. “Well sue!”
“All documents are notarised,” Archibald said smoothly. “And we have recordings of your *surveyor* and every threatening call. Attempted fraud against an elderly woman.”
He closed the file.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door open. “With your greed and lies. Get out.”
They left in stunned silence.
Elizabeth hugged me tightly.
“Now, Clara, weve got an estate to manage. Ready?”
I glanced at the map of Cornwall. Justice had been served.
**Epilogue**
Six months later, I quit my job. Managing the cottages was a full-time pursuit.
Elizabethnow my *business mentor*was a force of nature. We kept her council flat as our base.
Olivia and Sophie sued. They lostleft with crippling legal fees. They vanished, selling their home to scrape by.
Once, Sophie called, hollow-voiced.
“Mums ill Were struggling Clara, were *family*.”
The old Clara was gone.
“We *are* relatives,” I said. “But not family. Goodbye.”
Some bridges must be burned.
One autumn evening, we sat on the terrace of *our* cottage in St Ives.
“I didnt plan this, you know,” Elizabeth mused. “I just worked hard. Your uncle was cleverwe wanted *freedom*, not mansions.”
She turned to me. “This wealth isnt a reward, Clara. Its a toolto live as *you* choose. To tell greedy fools to sod off.”
Her eyes twinkled.
“And to buy every book youll ever want.”
I laughed and hugged her.
True wealth was this: sitting with someone you love, watching the sunset, knowing tomorrow is yours to shape.
And that was worth more than gold.
