“You Have No Family, Let Your Sister Have the House—She’s Struggling More Now,” My Mother Said. “It’…

Youve no family, let your sister have the houseits harder for her these days, announced my mother, dreamlike and disembodied, as if her voice floated on a draft of Worcestershire mist. Its easier for you, dear, but your sister has that large broodyou must see sense.

Why the long face? my sister chimed, slipping next to me on the battered sofa, clutching a glass of Ribena. Children circled the cake-laden table, squealing in the twilight. Her husband gestured with his fork, icing hanging like a surrealists flag, as he spun tales to his bemused mother-in-law.

Im just tired, thats all, I looked away, words drifting with the London drizzle outside. Work was a proper shambles today.

She smileda drowsy, far-off smile that might have belonged to another dreamand flicked a stray lock behind her ear.

Ive been meaning to talk to you, about Dads cottage in Somerset.

Im listening.

She leaned in, her voice lowering, shadowy and echoing odd:

Weve been thinkingwhat need have you and your husband for the cottage? Just the two of you, and youve your flat in Croydon. But uswere stuffed to the rafters, three little ones in a rented two-bed up the road. If we moved there, at least wed have fresh country air, a garden, a bit of breathing space

I watched my niece as she huffed out the candles on her Battenbergsix years old, eldest of the trio, with eyes as wide as the moon.

You lot dont need that house, not really, my sister pressed on, voice a little watery. Only expenses, leaky roof, fence sagging like tired soldiersa never-ending repair job.

How exactly would you manage? drifted across my mind, but I let it pass.

Mum agrees its sensible, she hedged, gaze on her tattered sleeve. Were not after a hand out, justlet us have your share. Well sort it, promise.

I nodded, though something tight and cold coiled inside me.

On the train home, my husband said nothing, eyes fixed on the rain running along the glass.

What happened?

They want me to sign over my share of the cottage.

You meangive it away?

Yes. They reckon they need it more. Were comfortable.

Comfortable? he barked a laugh, hollow as a crypt. In our poky mortgaged studio flat?

Next morning, as the kettle boiled, my mothers voice arrived on the phone, echoing with the clinking of milk bottles outside:

Have you thought it over?

Theres nothing to considerthe cottage is half mine.

Oh, always harping on about your rights, she tutted, her words floating past the faded teacups. But what about your family? Theyve got three children. And its just you.

Our flats mortgaged for ten years more.

Theyve not even got that much.

I was the one who looked after Dad through all those months in and out of hospitals, fetching pills, sorting appointments. My sister came by twice, if that.

Youre the eldest. You should understand. Yourefree.

Free. The word flickered and jabbed, unreal and sharp as a pin.

That evening, I sipped tea in the yellow kitchen light.

Even Mum thinks you should? my husband asked gently.

Yes.

The following day, I met a friend beneath ghostly plane trees.

When was the last time your sister helped you? she asked, voice melting into the haze.

I fumbled for an answernone came.

Do they know how much you spent on IVF? she whispered.

They dont.

Nearly a hundred thousand pounds. Not one pregnancy. Yet they think youve got it easy.

Later, drawn by memories, I went to the cottage alone. The lane was lined with forgetfulness; the gate squealed with ancient secrets. Inside, dust danced. I found a notebook, Dads crabbed hand totalling up endless repairs. Hed meant to do so much. He had run out of time.

In the yard, the apple tree stood, the one we planted together when I was littlea sentinel of memory, its blossom clinging to sleep.

This house wasnt just bricks. It was remembrance.

When my mother drifted in, spectral, she said, Youve no familyits easier for you

I didnt swallow my voice.

Three rounds of IVF. Three. Still nothing.

For the first time, I said, The cottage is mine. Im not giving it up.

The quiet that followed was strangenot empty, but fullcuriously weightless.

Spring arrived days early, as though the dream had hurried it along.

Mrs. Fletcher from across the hedge peered over, breath clouding in the gentle air:

He was always waiting for you, you know.

I sat on the porch, tea in a chipped Sherlock Holmes mug, Dads old jumper warming my shoulders, apple blossom dancing before me.

This is my home.

Not because I yielded.

But because I belong to its memory. Because the right was finally mine.