You should be grateful we even put up with you, Susan said over the Christmas dinner.
Is that all? Mary snatched the corner of a modest gift bag with two fingers, her tone dripping with disgust. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, just look at this generosity.
Mary, stop it, Margaret, the birthday woman, pressed her lips tight, a cold approval flashing in her eyes. Susan tried.
S tried? Susan laughed, tossing the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the nearest DIY shop? She could at least be generousshe lives on a pension, pays nothing for the house.
A blush rushed up Marys cheeks. She stood at the table shed been preparing since early morning, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, Ethan, sitting beside her, sank his eyes into his plate, already understanding everything.
I thought it was practical, Mary whispered, not looking up. The old ones were completely worn out
Practical? Susan snapped, leaning back. She was the younger sister of Marys late husband Andrewbright, selfassured, with a permanent air of superiority. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. Then thered be more room in the house.
Silence hung over the table until Ethans fork clattered to the floor. He jumped up and fled the room without a word. Mary flinched, about to follow, but Margarets firm voice stopped her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve already made a fool of the boy; a little more and hell be in tears. Hes growing up, not acting like a little girl.
Mary sat, feeling a chill settle inside. She glanced at the empty chair where Andrew had sat five years ago. He would never have spoken to her that way; one look from him would have put Susan in her place. But Andrew was gone. She was alone in this large, unfamiliar house, where every slice of bread seemed to have to be paid for with humiliation.
The celebration was ruined. Distant relatives and neighbours pretended nothing had happened, but their conversations fell quieter and their glances at Mary were filled with awkward sympathy. She smiled mechanically, refilled glasses with juice, cleared empty plates, wishing the day would end.
When the last guests left, Susan, already gathering her things with her husband, paused at the door.
I hope you understand Im not saying this out of malice, she said, tone leaving no room for argument. Im just saying what I think. You should be grateful we tolerate you after everythingboth for Andrews memory and for Mother.
The door slammed. Mary was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Margaret slipped silently into her bedroom without a word. Fatigue settled on Mary like lead. She sank onto a stool and wept silently, not from spiteshe was almost used to itbut from helplessness.
Late that night, after washing the dishes, she entered Ethans room. He lay on his side, facing the wall.
Ethan, are you awake? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Susan not like us? he asked without turning.
Mary stroked his hair, searching for the right words to explain the tangled, suffocating web of family relations.
Shes not cruel, just complicated. She misses Dad a lot, as do we.
Dad would have scolded her, Ethan said confidently. Hed never have let her hurt you.
Yes, he would have, Mary agreed, feeling a new lump rise in her throat. Sleep now, love. School tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no bedroom of her own. Since Andrews death, she and Ethan had been living in what had been his childhood bedroomtiny and cramped. Their former master bedroom now stood empty, turned by Margaret into a memory room where everything remained as it had been when Andrew lived. Only Margaret was allowed inside.
The house, once spacious and cozy, now felt like a golden cage. It belonged to Andrews parents. After Andrew died, Margaret became the outright owner. Mary, Andrew, and young Ethan had lived there from the start; Andrew never wanted his ageing mother left alone. He worked hard, earned well, and his income covered everyone. When he was gone, the modest savings ran out quickly. Mary, a qualified accountant who hadnt worked for years, could only find parttime work as a callcentre operator to pick Ethan up from school. Her wages were tiny, barely covering the boys clothes, school fees and small expenses. They lived on Margarets support, and that was Susans main weapon.
The next morning Margaret acted as if the previous nights argument had never occurred. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.
Good morning, Mary said quietly, placing a pot of porridge on the stove for Ethan.
Margaret nodded without looking up.
Im heading to a friends cottage for a couple of days. Foods in the fridge, the house needs looking after, and dont forget to water the flowers in the sitting room.
Of course, Margaret.
When Margarets door closed, Mary breathed freely for the first time in ages. Two days of silence, two days without cutting remarks and poisonous comments.
She took Ethan to school and returned to the empty house. With a watering can in hand, she tended the many plants Margaret adored. In the sitting room, on an old chest of drawers, stood photographs: a smiling young Andrew, a cheerful Margaret, a picture of the two of them on their wedding day. The image that always tightened Marys chest was the one of her and Andrew on their wedding dayso full of hope.
Her eyes fell on the closed door of the former master bedroomthe memory room. Though she was forbidden to enter, curiosity won. The door was unlocked. She slipped inside, listening for any sound. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as Margaret had left it: the doublebed with its silk cover, the dressing table with untouched perfume bottles, Andrews bookshelf.
She ran her fingers over the spines of familiar booksclassics, history, science fiction. Between the volumes of Dickens, a thick folder stuck out. She didnt recall it. She pulled it out gently and set it on the bedside table. The cover simply read Documents.
Her heart raced. Inside were old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and among them a will. It had been drafted by Andrews father, Ian Thompson, six months before his death.
She opened it. In plain black ink it stated that the house, in which they now lived, was bequeathed not to his wife but to his son, Andrew Thompson. The only condition: his widow, Margaret, could reside there for life. No mention of Susan.
Mary sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling. It meant that after Andrews death the sole heir of the house was his son, Ethan. As his legal guardian until adulthood, Mary was effectively the houses manager. Margaret had known this and kept it secret all these years.
She carefully placed the folder back, closed the door, and stood in the hallway, mind clouded. What should she do with this knowledge? Hand the will to Margaret? Start a scandal? Reveal the truth to Susan, who believed she owned the house? The thought made her uneasy. She didnt want a war; she just wanted a quiet life for herself and her son.
For two days Mary moved through the house in a fog, weighing her options. She could claim her rights outright, hire a solicitor, expose the hidden will. But then she would have to continue living under the same roof with people who might despise her even more, or drive out the elderly motherinlaw, Margaret, who was also Andrews mother. Andrew would never have approved.
When Margaret returned, Mary greeted her with a calm smile, helped with the bags, poured tea. Margaret chatted about her friends garden, while Mary nodded, internally rehearsing her lines.
That evening, alone in the kitchen, Mary finally spoke.
Margaret, we need to talk.
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
About what?
The house, Mary began, keeping her voice steady. I know about Ian Thompsons will.
A long, ringing silence followed. Margaret set her cup down slowly, her face hardening.
You went through my things? she asked, voice icy.
I found the folder in Andrews old roomyour memory room.
Dont speak like that! That was Andrews room! Margaret snapped.
Our sons, its still our stuff, Mary corrected. It was our bedroom too.
They stared at each other, neither looking away.
What do you want? Margaret finally asked, a metallic edge to her tone. Kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No, Mary replied. Im not looking to sell. This is Ethans home, his fathers, his grandfathers. I just want the humiliation to stop. I want Susan to stop treating us like strangers in our own home. By law this house belongs to us.
Margaret sighed, breathing heavily.
I did it for the family, she whispered. I didnt want Susan left with nothing after Im gone. I thought wed all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Margaret. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are tenants with no rights. Andrew would never have allowed this. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
She turned toward the window, shoulders slumping.
What will you do now?
Nothing, Mary said. Ill leave the will where it is. I wont start a legal battle. But I want you to speak to Susan, to change how you both treat us. Ethan is your only grandson, and he shouldnt grow up feeling he doesnt belong.
The next day was Saturday. By lunchtime, as usual, Susan arrived with her husband and their little daughter. Mary set the table, feeling the tension in the air. Margaret sat pale and silent.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Susan asked brightly, plopping down. Did your tenant again spoil the mood?
Susan, shut up, Margaret snapped, sharper than ever before.
Susan stared, surprised.
Whats that supposed to mean?
I want you to apologise to Maryfor yesterday and everything before.
Susans face stretched.
Apologise? To her? Are you serious? For speaking the truth?
Thats not true, Margarets voice trembled. Mary and Ethan arent guests. This house it belongs to them.
Susan turned slowly to Mary, then back to her mother. Confusion and anger flickered in her eyes.
What? You knew all this and kept quiet? You let us think she was nothing?
Its for the family, Margaret muttered. For the family!
Family?! Susan shouted, standing abruptly. This is your house! My father left it to Andrew!
The father left it to Andrew, Margaret replied calmly. Now, after Andrew, it passes to Ethan.
The kitchen fell into a dead silence. Susans husband froze, fork midair. Susan stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You you knew? All this time you hid it? You let us believe she was a stray?
I only found out two days ago, Mary said softly.
Lying! Youre in on it together! Youre both against me! Susan screamed, grabbing her bag. Im not staying in this house any longer!
She stormed out, her husband trailing behind. The front door slammed.
Margaret covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Ethan, who had been watching quietly in the corner, walked over and took Marys hand.
Mary placed a hand on Margarets shoulder.
Dont cry, Margaret. It will be okay.
The old woman looked up, tearfilled and bewildered.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Mary said firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Mary didnt know whether her words were true. She didnt know what tomorrow would bring. But looking at her sons clenched grip and at the broken woman before her, Mary felt, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the master of her own home and her own fate. There would be many challenges ahead, yet she now understood she had the right to fight for her place in the sun for herself and for her son.
In the end, she learned that a house is more than bricks and deeds; it is the respect and love that fill it. Without those, even the grandest home becomes a prison. The true freedom lies in standing up for what is right, even when the odds seem stacked against you.
