“Now Half of Your Property Belongs to Me,” Declared the Eccentric Woman.

The couple lived a good life. They married when they were both thirty. Soon, their son was born. They had a charming family, plenty of money, bought a cosy flat in London, and transformed their countryside cottage in the Cotswolds into a modern retreat with every comfort imaginable. Holidays abroad? Annual tradition. Her husband was loyal never once did her mind turn to doubts (nor his to other women or, heaven forbid, men).

Their son grew up thoughtful and bright and, in his twenties, married a lovely girl named Maisie. Theyre just like us, only starting ten years sooner! thought Margaret, practically beaming. The young couples parents gifted them a sweet little flat to start off.

Margaret was the picture of happiness. Still, as the years passed, whether due to creeping superstition or simply the inevitability of age, she began to fret about her idyllic life. Surely something dreadful would happen?

And so it did.

Her husband passed away.

It took Margaret an age to recover. But, little by little, she found her footing again. She even returned to work for the first time in decades no longer a housewife.

Everyone insisted she sort out the will. Off to the solicitor she went, son in tow. It seemed odd after all, half of everything was hers, wasnt it? No secret heirs lurking in the shadows; both her husbands parents had long since departed this world.

Their solicitor invited them in. Seated at the table was a woman Margaret had never seen before.

Her late husbands half of the estate had been left to this stranger.

Margaret stared at the solicitor, then at the woman. She was… well, not exactly a spring chicken, probably around fifty, unimpressive, and undoubtedly had some odd tie to her husband.

The solicitor explained: there was, in fact, a will, penned twenty-seven years ago. Since it hadnt been revoked, it remained legally binding.

A mysterious stranger…

Lets roll back to their youth, as if it were the opening scene of some slightly awkward romantic comedy. They were young, freshly done with university. An entire future ahead thrilling and uncertain.

He was her first ever boyfriend, which he found quite touching. Hed tease her, saying, Youre practically my child! (despite being the same age). She would laugh and beam.

One evening, they watched a film where lovestruck characters wrote their wills, leaving everything to each other. The idea seemed so fantastically ridiculous that, giggling, they did the same scribbling out a mini-will: All mine is yours. Forever and ever. The girl, Alice, insisted it was just a silly scrap, but, for good measure, they took it to a proper solicitor. And then, laughter and champagne, they celebrated as only the young and in love can.

But then, reality arrived late and panting, like a flustered postman. His father fell ill, so he and his mother whisked the old man abroad for treatment.

Alice met someone, had a few dinners with him, then realised she was pregnant. He proposed on the spot. Her mother approved: reliable men are fewer than hens teeth, after all. As for her old beau, he never replied to her letters.

So Alice married. Off they moved to Manchester, where her husband landed a strong job. They had a daughter, but things soured, and soon after, the marriage fizzled out.

Of course, she remembered that silly old will and had updated her own, leaving everything to her daughter.

Years later, out of the blue, a formal letter landed on Alices doormat. Shed all but forgotten her old flame. But the name oh, the name! Suddenly, emotions from another era spilled back.

As for the chap, hed had other fish to fry. His father eventually passed, then his mother fell ill. By the time he heard Alice had moved and married, he closed that book. He eventually met his future wife not love at first sight, but he admired her steady nature. They had a good life.

And now? Would the mysterious woman (Alice) really lay claim to half the estate? Margaret asked, dazed.

It was all so strange. The will he must have loved her to do that, Margaret mused. Well, at least she could keep the half as a sentimental tribute.

“Half of what you own is now mine,” Alice informed Margaret. No ordinary half, mind! The London flat, the cottage, the car, the balance of the accounts the whole kit and caboodle.

Margarets heart nearly stopped. First the loss of her husband, now this posthumous screenwriters twist. Betrayal, delivered by Her Majestys Royal Mail.

All those years together not once had he mentioned his old sweetheart!

And now, she was expected to fork over so much…

Off to court she went, but nothing changed except her stress levels.

In the end, Alice took the money.

She promptly bought herself a fresh little flat and dashed off for a holiday at Brighton with her daughter.

Thank you, Alice repeated every day, grinning at her own remarkable good fortune.