Returning to my parents house after fifteen years, I discovered something shocking: all this time, I had been living like a pauper, unaware I was a wealthy heiress.
“Emily Charlotte, your father he passed this morning”
Margaret Dawsons voice shook. I clutched the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“What happened to him?” I asked, startled by how strange my own voice sounded.
“His heart stopped. William Edward passed in his sleep.”
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since I last saw my father, heard his voice. Now, I never would again.
The journey from Manchester to my hometown in Yorkshire took three hours. Every mile rewound timefamiliar bends in the road, ageing cottages, the crisp scent of autumn. Everything was just as Id left it.
The house greeted me with silence. On the porch stood a woman in her mid-fortiesblonde, dressed in black. Beside her was a tall boy with my fathers eyes.
“Are you Emily?” she asked. “Im Sarah. 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, eyeing me with curiosity. “Did you really run off at fifteen?”
“Oliver!” Sarah scolded. “Come inside, Emily. Margarets waiting.”
The house smelled of fresh scones and grief. Margaret sat in the kitchenolder now, but as brisk as ever.
“Emmy, love,” she hugged me. “Youre too thin. Youre not eating properly.”
“I eat fine, Margaret.”
“And where are you working?”
“At a hotel reception desk.”
Sarahs brow lifted.
“A hotel? I thought you left to study, to build a career.”
There was no judgmentjust mild confusion. Yet, I shifted uncomfortably.
“Your father often asked about you,” Margaret said quietly. “He was glad you made your own way. Even proud.”
“Proud?” Bitterness crept into my tone. “After he threw me out?”
“He didnt throw you out,” Margaret snapped. “You left on your own, after that row.”
Sarah exchanged a glance with Oliver and stood.
“Well visit the neighbourstheres still arrangements to make. You two talk.”
Once they left, Margaret poured me tea and sat across from me.
“Tell me about Daniel,” I asked. “What really happened?”
She sighed.
“Your father had his reasons for disapproving. Daniel Carter was stealing car parts from the garage and selling them. At first, William suspected the lads at workthen he found out it was him.”
“Why didnt he tell me?”
“He feared you wouldnt believe him. A fifteen-year-old in love thinks her fathers a tyrant meddling in her life.”
I stayed silent, absorbing this.
“What happened to Daniel?”
“Six months after you left, he was caught. Served a year. Then he moved north. No ones seen him since.”
The next day was the funeral. Many camemy father was well-respected. After the burial, only family remained.
“The solicitors coming tomorrow,” Sarah said, clearing teacups. “Jonathan Whittaker will read the will.”
“Why not today?”
“Your father wanted to wait until you returned.”
I was taken aback. Had he known Id come? Or just hoped?
That evening, we sat together in the kitchen. Oliver did homework, Sarah ironed shirts. A normal family scene where I felt like an outsider.
“Tell me about Father,” I asked. “What was he like these past years?”
Sarah paused.
“A good husband, devoted father. Hardworking, honest. Just sad. Especially on your birthday and Christmas. Hed say, I wonder how my Emilys celebrating.”
“Mum, why didnt Dad ever tell me about Emily?” Oliver asked, glancing up from his books.
“He did. You were too young to remember.”
“Then why didnt she visit?”
Sarah looked at me.
“You should ask Emily that.”
“Pride,” I admitted. “Stupid, childish pride.”
The next morning, the solicitor arrivedJonathan Whittaker, a wiry man in his sixties, crisp suit and spectacles. Behind him came Robert Hayes, my fathers business partner, whom I remembered from childhood.
“Emily!” He beamed. “Youre the spitting image of your mother!”
I shook his hand but couldnt smile. Something in his tone unsettled me.
The solicitor laid documents on the table.
“Let us begin reading William Edward Clarkes last will and testament.”
His voice was dry, official. The house and garage went to the family. Then came the shock:
“A sum of eight hundred thousand pounds, held in a deposit account at Barclays, is bequeathed to daughter Emily Charlotte Clarke.”
Silence. Sarah paled. Robert scowled. Oliver just looked puzzled.
“Eight hundred thousand?” I repeated. “Where did Father get that kind of money?”
“William had been saving garage profits and investments for fifteen years,” the solicitor explained. “The account was opened in your name at birth.”
“Thats not right!” Robert stood abruptly. “That money should go to his familyhis wife and son!”
“The will is legally binding,” Jonathan replied calmly.
Sarah stayed quiet, but her face betrayed shock and hurt.
“Sarah Elizabeth,” the solicitor addressed her, “your husband left you a letter.”
She opened it with trembling hands. As she read, her expression shifted.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“He wrote that the money was always meant for you. He hoped youd return one day and have a fresh start. Oliver and I have the house, the garage, and another account with a hundred and fifty thousand.”
Robert reddened.
“What about our partnership? Half that garage is mine! And part of that money!”
“Do you have proof?” the solicitor asked.
“Of course! William and I worked side by side for fifteen years!”
After Jonathan left, chaos erupted. Robert demanded his share, Sarah tried to mediate, Oliver shrank into his chair.
“Emily, you cant just take it all,” Robert argued. “Youve got family now, responsibilities.”
“What family?” I shot back. “Fifteen years ago, I walked out with nothing!”
“Keep your voice down,” Sarah cut in. “Olivers listening.”
The boy sat wide-eyed. Shame washed over me.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “Grown-ups argue sometimes. Its nothing to worry about.”
Oliver nodded, but unease lingered in his gaze.
That evening, after Robert left, the three of us remained. Sarah put Oliver to bed while I wandered the house, touching familiar things.
On Fathers desk lay a folder labelled “Emily.” Curiosity won.
Inside were dozens of unsent letters in his hand. All to me.
*My dearest Emmy, today you turned sixteen. Margaret says youre doing well. Im so proud*
*Emily, two years have passed. Every day I wonder: should I have explained about Daniel instead of forbidding you?*
*Love, Ive opened an account for you. I save every month. When you return, its yours*
The letters told of a father who didnt know how to apologise but loved fiercely. Hed tracked my life through others, rejoiced in my successes, ached over my struggles.
One line struck deepest:
*Robert insists on investing your money into the garage. Promises high returns. But this isnt for business. Its for you. So you can forgive this old fool and begin again.*
Tears fell. So many wasted years. So much left unsaid.
“Emily, where are you?” Sarah 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. Emily isnt ready to forgive me.”
“How did you feel? About him leaving me everything?”
She chose her words carefully.
“At first, hurt. I thought of Olivers future, his schooling, our needs. Then I realisedyour father was fair. Oliver gets the house and business. You got a fresh start. You left with nothing.”
“But eight hundred thousand”
“Your father denied himself for fifteen years to save it. No new car, no holidays, no renovations. All he thought about was you.”
The next day, Robert returned with documents, jaw set.
“Look, Emily,” he spread papers on the table. “Our partnership agreement. We invested equallyhalf the profits are mine.”
I scanned the pages. Legally, he had a claim.
“Fine,” I said. “But not the full amount. Your shares about two hundred thousand.”
His face fell.
“Two? I expected at least four!”
“Legally, its two. Take it or go to court.”
Realising bluster wouldnt work, he relented:
“Fine, two. But I want
