I returned to my parents house after fifteen years and discovered Id been living like a pauper, unaware I was a wealthy heiress.
“Emily Anne, your father this morning”
Margarets voice shook. I clutched the phone so hard my knuckles whitened.
“Whats happened to him?” I asked, startled by how strange my own voice sounded.
“Heart failure. Charles Edward passed in his sleep.”
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since Id last seen my father, heard his voice. Now I never would again.
The journey from Manchester to my hometown took three hours. Every mile rewound timefamiliar lanes, old cottages, the crisp scent of autumn. Nothing had changed since I left.
The house stood silent. On the porch waited a woman in her fortiesfair-haired, dressed in black. Beside her stood a tall boy with my fathers eyes.
“Youre Emily?” she asked. “Im Claire. This is Oliver, your brother.”
The word *brother* felt foreign. I had a sibling Id never met.
“Mum said I had a sister,” Oliver said, studying me curiously. “Did you really run off at fifteen?”
“Oliver!” Claire scolded. “Come inside, Emily. Margarets waiting.”
The house smelled of fresh bread and sorrow. Margaret sat in the kitchenolder but as sharp as ever.
“Emily, love,” she embraced me. “Youre too thin. Arent you eating properly?”
“I eat fine, Margaret.”
“And where do you work now?”
“Hotel reception.”
Claire raised a brow.
“A hotel? I thought you left to study, make something of yourself.”
No judgment, just quiet confusion. Still, it stung.
“Your father often asked after you,” Margaret said softly. “He admired your independence. Even took pride in it.”
“Pride?” I couldnt mask the bitterness. “After he threw me out?”
“He didnt throw you out,” Margaret snapped. “You left on your own after that row.”
Claire exchanged a glance with Oliver and stood.
“Well visit the neighbourstheres still arrangements to make. You two talk.”
Once alone, Margaret poured tea and sat across from me.
“Tell me about Daniel,” I said. “What really happened?”
She sighed.
“Your father had good reason to disapprove. Daniel Wright was nicking parts from the garage and selling them. At first, Charles suspected the lads, then he caught him red-handed.”
“Why didnt he tell me?”
“Feared you wouldnt believe him. A fifteen-year-old in love thinks her dads just being overbearing.”
I let that sink in.
“What became of Daniel?”
“Got nicked six months after you left. Did a year inside, then moved up north. Never seen round here since.”
The funeral drew a crowdmy father was well-respected. After the burial, only family remained.
“The solicitors coming tomorrow,” Claire said, clearing plates. “Jonathan wants to read the will.”
“Why not today?”
“Your father insisted we wait for you.”
That surprised me. Had he known Id return? Or just hoped?
That evening, we sat in the kitchen. Oliver did homework, Claire ironed. A normal family scene where I felt like an intruder.
“Tell me about Father,” I asked. “What was he like these past years?”
Claire considered.
“Good husband, devoted father. Hardworking, decent. Just sad. Especially on your birthday and Christmas. Hed say, Wonder how my Emilys celebrating.”
“Mum, why didnt Dad ever tell me about Emily?” Oliver asked, looking up from his books.
“He did. You were too young to remember.”
“Then why didnt she visit?”
Claire glanced at me.
“Best ask Emily that.”
“Pride,” I admitted. “Stupid, childish pride.”
Next morning, the solicitor arrivedJonathan, a lean man in his sixties, stern in his suit and spectacles. Behind him came WilliamDads business partner, whom I remembered from childhood.
“Emily!” He beamed. “Youre the spitting image of your mother when she was young!”
I shook his hand but couldnt smile. Something in his tone unsettled me.
The solicitor laid out documents.
“Well now read the last will and testament of Charles Edward Spencer.”
His voice was flat, official. The house and garage went to the family. Then came the shock.
“Funds totalling eight hundred thousand pounds, held in deposit at Barclays, are bequeathed to daughter Emily Anne Spencer.”
Silence. Claire paled. William scowled. Oliver looked lost.
“Eight hundred thousand?” I repeated. “Whered Father get that kind of money?”
“Your father saved garage profits and other ventures for fifteen years,” Jonathan explained. “The account was opened in your name at birth.”
“Thats not right!” William stood abruptly. “That money should stay with the family! Hes got a wife and son!”
“The will is legally binding,” Jonathan replied calmly.
Claire stayed quiet, but her face showed hurt and shock.
“Claire Margaret,” the solicitor said, “your husband left you a letter.”
Her hands trembled as she opened it. Her expression shifted as she read.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“He writes the money was always meant for you. He hoped youd return and wanted you to have a fresh start. Oliver and I get the house, garage, and another account with a hundred fifty thousand.”
William flushed crimson.
“What about our partnership? Half that garage is mine! And part of that money!”
“Do you have proof?” Jonathan asked.
“Course I do! Charles and I built that business together!”
After Jonathan left, chaos erupted. William demanded his share, Claire tried to mediate, Oliver shrank into a corner.
“Emily, you cant just take the lot,” William argued. “Youve got family obligations now.”
“What family?” I shot back. “Fifteen years ago, I walked out with nothing!”
“Keep your voice down,” Claire interjected. “Olivers listening.”
The boy did look frightened. I felt ashamed.
“Sorry,” I told him. “Grown-ups argue sometimes. Its not as bad as it sounds.”
Oliver nodded, but unease lingered in his eyes.
That evening, once William left, the three of us remained. Claire put Oliver to bed while I wandered the house, reacquainting myself with forgotten corners.
On Fathers desk lay a folder marked *Emily*. Curiosity won.
Inside were dozens of unsent letters in his hand, all addressed to me.
*My dear Emily, today you turned sixteen. Margaret says youre doing well. Im so proud*
*Em, its been two years. Every day I wondershould I have explained about Daniel instead of just forbidding you?*
*Daughter, Ive opened an account for you. I save every month. When you return, its yours to do with as you please*
The letters revealed a father whod loved deeply but didnt know how to bridge the gap. Hed tracked my life through others, celebrated my wins, fretted over my struggles.
One letter stood out:
*William insists we invest your money into expanding the garage. Promises high returns. But this money isnt for business. Its for you. So you might forgive this old fool and begin anew.*
Tears fell as I read. So many wasted years. So much left unsaid.
“Emily? Where are you?” Claire called.
Wiping my eyes, I joined her in the kitchen. She sipped tea at the table.
“Cant sleep?” she asked.
“I found Dads letters.”
She nodded.
“He wrote monthly. I offered to post them, but hed say, Not yet. Emilys not ready to forgive me.”
“How do you feel about him leaving me everything?”
She chose her words carefully.
“At first, I resented it. Thought of Olivers futurehis schooling, our needs. Then I realised: your father was fair. Oliver gets the house and business. You got a chance to start over. You left with nothing.”
“But eight hundred thousand…”
“Your father went without for fifteen years to save that. No new car, no holidays, no renovations. All that time, he thought only of you.”
Next day, William returned, documents in hand, jaw set.
“Look here, Emily,” he spread papers on the table. “Our partnership agreement. We invested equally, so half the profits are rightly mine.”
I reviewed the papers. Legally, he had a claim.
“Fine,” I said. “But not the full eight hundred thousand. Your shares about two hundred.”
Williams face fell.
“Two? Be serious! I expected at least four!”
“The law says two. Take it or go to court.”
Realising bluster wouldnt work, he tried another angle.
“Alright, two it is. But I want to buy Claires share of the garage. The business needs to grow.”
“The garage isn
