**The Grand Prize**
Elizabeth Dawson was widowed at thirty-two, left with two children: a son, Oliver, and a daughter, Beatrice.
She forbade herself from even thinking of love again. All the tenderness she had left, she poured into her elder childOliver, quiet and obedient, the son she saw as her anchor in old age.
Beatrice, however, took after her fatherdreamy, impulsive, with a stubborn fire in her eyes. The girl refused to bend to the harsh rules of her mothers world. Their conversations often felt like skirmishes.
*”You should be thinking of your future, not those silly poems!”* Elizabeth snapped once, snatching the notebook from Beatrices hands.
*”And whats in this future? Working at a factory like you? Just surviving?”* Beatrice shot back.
Oliver, meanwhile, basked in adoration. His mistakes were forgiven, his small victories treated as triumphs. He learned quickly: his mother was always on his side. She would give him everything, even more than she hadso long as he kept her happy. He wasnt cruel. Just convenient. Just used to taking.
Beatrice, worn down by the cold war with her mother, left home at eighteen. She enrolled in teacher training college, moved into a dorm, and rarely called. Her visits always ended in shouting.
Then she vanished entirely.
When neighbours asked after her, Elizabeth would stiffen and look away. Oliver, if his mother mentioned his sister, would shrug. *”She never liked it here. Let her sort her own life out.”* He was married now but still visited every Sundayfor a hearty plate of roast beef, a Tupperware of leftovers, and a little extra cash *”for odds and ends.”*
Five years passed.
Then one evening, Beatrice appeared on her mothers doorstep. A small girl clutched her skirt, eyes wide. Beatrice herself was thin as a ghost, coughing like her chest might split apart.
*”And whats this?”* Elizabeth asked, voice icy, staring at the child.
Beatrice hadnt disappeared without reason. Shed hidden her pregnancy, then her daughterknowing her mother wouldnt approve. Shed worked two jobs, barely scraped by, until her health failed. The doctors gave no promisesonly months, maybe a year. She had nowhere else to leave little Emily
And so the circle was closed. Beatrice had returned to the threshold shed once been too eager to cross.
Elizabeth let them in. Not out of love, but duty. *”What will people say if I turn away my dying daughter and a child?”* That was what moved her.
They took the smallest room. Beatrice faded quietly. Emily, like a stubborn shoot through cracks in stone, began softening her grandmothers hardened heart.
Elizabeth found, to her surprise, this little creature wasnt afraid of her. Trusted her. Loved her without hesitation. Emily brought her scribbled drawings*”for Granny Lizzie!”*hugged her each morning, and even tried to cheer her when she frowned. At night, if nightmares struck, the girl didnt run to her motherbut to Elizabeths bed, staying till dawn.
Beatrice died as quietly as shed lived.
And in the flat, two women remainedone whose life was all behind her, and one whose life was just beginning.
That was when the ice began to thaw.
Elizabeth, whod spent a lifetime fearing weakness, found it in herself at last. She taught Emily to bake scones, told her family stories (carefully edited, of course), and wept into her pillow at night, realising how cold shed been to her own daughter. Her love for Emily was painful. Late. A penance.
Oliver hated it.
*”Mum, youre spoiling her!”* he grumbled, watching Elizabeth buy the girl a new dress. *”Were not made of money.”*
*”Its my money,”* Elizabeth said sharplythe first steel in her voice aimed at him.
Years passed. Emily grew into the one person Elizabeth couldnt live without. Olivers visits grew sparse, just formalities. Yet he was certain his mothers flat and cottage were his by righthis niece was *”hardly family,”* not a direct heir.
Elizabeth saw it all. The way his eyes measured the flat. The hintsafter a drinkabout *”getting the paperwork sorted.”* Her heart, finally learning to love properly, ached for him. For the boy whod never grown up.
Her decision came quietly. No will to spark a feud after her death. Something subtler.
She took Emily to the bank. Transferred her savingsnot a fortune, but a lifetime of careful pennies saved for a rainy day that, thankfully, never came.
*”Granny, no! I dont need it!”* Emily protested.
*”Hush,”* Elizabeth said firmly. *”This isnt for you. Its for me. So I know youll always have your own crust. So youll never depend on them when Im gone.”*
She suspected Oliver would pressure Emily over the flat and cottage. But with this money, even if he took everything else, Emily wouldnt be left with nothing.
Oliver lived in a cramped flat on the citys edge, inherited by his wife, Claire. Money was tight; the walls still bore the stains of the nineties. His obsession was his mothers three-bedroom flatsolid brick, high ceilings, right in the city centre. To him, it wasnt just property. It was justice. A reward hed earned.
Hed never upset her. Never left her. It was his right. His ticket to a better life. With it, he could clear debts, even save.
When the solicitor explained Emily had equal claim, Oliver was stunned. Hed assumed only he and his late sister (whose share hed long claimed in his mind) were rightful heirs. Splitting it meant his dream was halved. Not enough.
So when inheritance was mentioned, Oliver transformed. His usual sullenness became fiery, relentless.
*”She has no right!”* he roared, pacing. *”Its my flat! Mums flat! Who does she think she is?”*
Claire sighed, knitting. Shed heard it all beforehow Beatrice had made everyone miserable, then crawled back with her *”brat.”*
Oliver measured everything in cost. Yes, Emily helped. But hadnt he? Monthly groceries, calling the plumber, *sacrificing* his Sundays?
What had Emily done? Lived there. She shouldve been in care.
For six months, Oliver plotted to fight. Threats. Lawyers. Warnings hed *”drag her through court.”*
Then Emily surprised them.
She invited Oliver and Claire for dinner. Set the table with Elizabeths favouritesthe same scone recipe, the same broth.
*”Uncle Oliver, Aunt Claire,”* she said softly, *”Ill give you my share of the flat. Its yours. And Ive a buyer for the cottageif you agree, Ill take that money, leave, and never trouble you again.”*
Silence. Claire stopped chewing. Oliver gaped.
*”Youre joking. Its a fraction ofwhy would I let you have the cottage?”*
*”Granny wanted me to have a start. The cottages worth far less, isnt it? And you dont need it. Take the deal. I wont waste time on courts.”*
She left the room. Oliver stared at the table. No battle. Everything he wantedhanded to him.
The solicitor, braced for a feud, was pleasantly shocked when they signed the papers.
Emily, with her grandmothers savings and the cottages sale, bought a small studioand still had enough left to spare. Shed remember that day in the bank often. Grateful. Free.
And for the first time, truly rid of *family.*
