The solicitors reception is stuffy, even though a fresh June breeze drifts outside. Emily runs her hand over the crease of her skirt, avoiding eye contact with Charlotte and Sophie. The sisters arrive on time, each in her own way: Charlotte in a sharp blazer, phone glued to her hand; Sophie in a light cardigan, her face warm as if shed just dropped by for tea. Emily watches how they settle: Charlotte takes the seat opposite the door, back straight, eyes fixed on the window; Sophie drifts toward the coffee table cluttered with worn magazines.
Outside, the town hums with traffic and the roar of engines stuck in rushhour, while inside time seems to slow. A thick, taut silence hangs between the sisters; everyone knows why theyre here, but no one dares to speak first.
Emily glances at the solicitors door. Behind it lies a piece of their pasta family cottage where they spent every summer together. After their mother died, the house sat empty for years. All three have grown up, started families, taken on responsibilities. Now the decision made in this room will determine whether they keep a shared place or let it disappear completely.
When the clerk invites them in, Charlotte is the first to rise, letting out a barely audible sigh. The office is bright; large windows look out onto a leafy square. Neat folders and a long wooden pen sit on the desk.
The solicitor greets each by name, speaking calmly and businesslike, outlining the procedure and reminding them of the need for documented consent. The paperwork is ready; she checks surnames and asks for passports. Everything proceeds formally and quicklyalmost like a driving test.
Emily registers the line: The cottage in Ashford passes into joint ownership of the three daughters, equal shares. Charlotte furrows her brow slightly, Sophie drops her gaze. No one objects aloud.
After the signatures, the solicitor explains the rights: each sister can now deal with her share under the law. Any change requires consent from all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period is set for the official inheritance, but in practice everything hinges on their mutual agreement.
Back in the corridor, evening light filters through the grimy glass. Emily feels a wave of fatigue, as if something important has slipped behind her and the future ahead is uncertain.
Already outside, Sophie breaks the silence:
Maybe we could meet at the cottage? See whats there
Charlotte shrugs:
I can only make it this weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
Emily thinks of the hectic week awaiting her at the office. Saying no now would mean admitting defeat prematurely.
Lets try to go together, she says slowly. We need to understand the scale of the work.
Charlotte lowers her head:
Id actually sell everything straight away, she whispers. Well never agree on how to use it and the taxes?
Sophie brightens:
Sell? Its the only place left Mums strawberries are still growing there!
Then what? Charlotte interjects. Who will look after it? Who will pay for repairs?
Emily feels the familiar tension between them: each pulls in her own direction, each has her own reason. She remembers summer evenings on the verandah, when the only arguments were about who would wash the dishes or where to hide the apricot jam from squirrels. Now the disputes are adult: taxes and shares instead of jam and sandpits.
Perhaps, she finally suggests, if we tidy up and invest a little we could rent it out in summer? Split the income fairly?
Charlotte looks at her closely:
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Sophie chimes in:
Id visit with my son now and then maybe a week in summer. I dont need rental money.
The conversation circles: one person lives there in turn, or together; rent to strangers or neighbours; do a full renovation or just patch the roof for the season, sell to an outsider or list the whole property. Old grievances surface without warning: who paid what before, who cared for Mum, who once repainted the shutters without asking.
The talk ends sharply and briefly. No compromise is reached; they only agree to meet again in two days at the cottage, each interpreting that as a chance to persuade the others or at least state their position seriously.
The cottage greets them with the smell of damp earth after a night rain and the sudden whirr of a neighbours mower. The house looks almost unchanged: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees drooping under the windows, an old bench by the shed with a cracked leg.
Inside it feels stifling even with the windows flung open. Mosquitoes lazily buzz over a thickglass vase that Mum once bought at the local hardware store. The sisters move through the rooms silently: Charlotte checks the meters and windows, Sophie immediately starts sorting the boxes of books in the bedroom corner, Emily peeks at the gas cooker and fridgeboth work intermittently.
The argument erupts almost as soon as they finish the walkthrough:
This place is falling apart, Charlotte says irritably. We need a full renovation! That costs money
Sophie shakes her head:
If we sell now well get the least The cottage lives as long as we visit together!
Emily tries to mediate:
We could fix what we can now, and deal with the rest later, she offers.
But the compromise proves illusory; each holds firm all day. By evening they speak barely at all. Sophie attempts to make dinner from leftover rice and tinned beans, Emily watches the news on her phonesignal only near the kitchen window, and Charlotte scrolls through work documents beside the kettle.
At eight oclock darkness deepens; the light above the porch flickers outa blown bulb. Heavy grey clouds gather over the garden.
A storm rolls in quickly; the first thunderclap sounds as they are already heading to their separate rooms. Lightning flashes through the windows, rain pelting the roof so loudly they have to raise their voices just to be heard inside.
Suddenly a strange sound echoes down the hallwaya splash mixed with the creak of boards overhead. Water streams thinly down the wall beside the bookcase. Sophie is the first to shout:
Theres a leak! Look!
Emily darts to the shed for a bucket. She first cant locate it among the old jam jars, finally uncovers a plastic pail with a handle and rushes back. The rain intensifies, water droplets falling faster.
Charlotte grabs a mop, trying to steer the stream away from sockets. Short bursts of light flash as the rooms surge with electricity, shadows dancing on the ceiling. The air fills with the scent of ozone, damp wood, something sharp.
Charlotte spins sharply toward her sisters:
This is a family nest! We cant live or rent it like this!
Now no one argues; everyone scrambles to move books off the shelves, shift a chair, lay an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it becomes clear: if they dont stop the leak now, a morning will bring half the furniture ruined.
The earlier grievances shrink to nothing. The solution arises on its own: find materials for a temporary fix right then.
When the water stops dripping from the ceiling, the house seems to exhaletogether with Emily, Charlotte, and Sophie. A bucket sits by the bookcase, halffilled with murky water; the rug is damp at the edges, books are stacked against the wall, the corridor smells of wet timber. Outside the rain eases; occasional drops tap the windowsill.
Emily wipes her forehead with her sleeve and looks at her sisters: Charlotte crouches by an outlet, checking it for water; Sophie sits on the stairs clutching an old hand towel theyre using as a rag. Quiet settles, broken only by the shed door slamming shut in the wind.
We need to sort the roof now, Charlotte says wearily. Otherwise the next shower will do the same.
Emily nods:
Theres roofing felt and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Sophie stands:
Ill help, just bring a torchIts dark in there.
The shed is cool, smelling of earth. Emily wrestles with an old headlamp; its batteries are low, the light jerks across the walls. The roofing felt is heavier than expected. Sophie holds the nails in her palm, Charlotte takes the hammerthe same one their father once used to fix the garden gate.
Time is short; the rain could return at any moment. They climb to the loft through a narrow crawlspace behind the kitchen. Its hot, dust and decades of air linger.
They work in silence. Emily holds the felt while Charlotte hammers it onto the joiststhe hammers thud sharp in the cramped space. Sophie hands over nails, muttering numbers to herself, perhaps counting blows to keep fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps, night sky peeksclouds drift over the garden, the moon illuminates damp apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Charlotte urges. If we dont secure it, the first gust will rip it off.
Emily presses the edge of the felt harder.
Sophie suddenly laughs:
Well, at least weve done something together
The laugh sounds warm, unexpectedthe first genuine one of the day.
Emily feels the tension melt away; her back loosens now that she can finally relax a little.
Maybe this is how it should be, she whispers. Fixing what breaks, together.
Charlotte meets her gazeher look is not angry, just tired.
It wont work any other way, she replies.
They finish quickly, nailing the last strip of felt and descending.
The kitchen is cool; the vent remains open after the storm. The sisters gather at the table: someone puts a kettle on the hob, another finds a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.
Emily brushes hair from her forehead and studies her sistersnow without irritation or resentment.
Well still have to keep negotiating, she says. This repair is just the beginning.
Sophie smiles:
I dont want to lose the cottage. She shrugs lightly. And I dont want us fighting over it.
Charlotte sighs:
Im scared of being left alone with all this upkeep. She looks at the table. But if we do it together maybe itll work.
A pause settles; outside, leaves rustle with the sound of dripping water, a dog barks in the distance.
Emily decides:
Lets not put this off. She pulls a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag. Well draw up a calendarwho can come each summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Sophie perks up:
I can take the first week of July.
Charlotte thinks:
August works better for memy kids are free then.
Emily marks the dates, drawing lines between weeks; gradually a grid of possible visits and duty rosters appears on the page.
They argue over small detailswho will be there 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. Yet now there is no anger, only a desire to sort things out and not lose each other.
The night passes peacefully; no one wakes from the sound of water or wind. In the morning the sun streams through the open windows; the garden glistens with dew on the apple leaves and the grass along the path to the gate.
Emily rises before her sisters and steps onto the porch; the cool boards greet her bare feet. A neighbours voice drifts over the fence, chatting about the weather and the harvest.
The kitchen already smells of coffee; Sophie has brewed a pot and laid out a packet of toast.
Charlotte arrives last, hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes a little bleary but calm.
They eat together, sharing toast and talking about the days plans without rush.
Well need more roofing felt, Charlotte notes. What we used barely covered it.
And we should replace the porch bulb, Sophie adds. I almost fell in the garden yesterday.
Emily smiles:
Ill add everything to our repair calendar
The sisters exchange glances; any lingering grievances have dissolved.
The cottage feels quieter than usual; through open doors come the chatter of neighbours and the clatter of dishes. The house seems alive againnot just because the roof no longer leaks, but because all three are present: each with her habits and flaws, now working as one.
Before leaving they walk through the rooms once more, closing windows, checking sockets, clearing away stray building supplies from the loft. On the kitchen table lies the sheet of paper marked with visit dates and notes on needed purchases.
Charlotte places the house keys neatly on the shelf by the door:
Lets touch base next week? Ill check with a builder about the roof.
Sophie nods:
Ill pop by next week to see the strawberries. Ill give you a call first.
Emily lingers in the hallway a moment longer, looks at her sisters and says quietly:
Thank you for last night and for today.
The sisters share another glance, their eyes calm and open, free of the old prickly shadows of distrust.
As the gate shuts behind them, the garden is dry after the nights downpour; the pathway gleams in the sunlight. The calendar sheet rests with their names beside the dates of future visitsa small promise that they will not disappear from each others lives, even after the toughest summer.
