**Diary Entry 15th October**
Fifteen years. Thats how long it had been since I last stepped foot in my parents house. And now, here I was, standing in the doorway, realising Id spent all that time scraping bycompletely unaware I was sitting on a fortune.
“Emily Anne, your father he passed this morning.”
Aunt Margarets voice shook as she spoke. My grip on the phone tightened, my knuckles whitening.
“What happened?” I asked, barely recognising my own voice.
“His heart. He went in his sleep.”
Fifteen years. A lifetime. And now Id never hear his voice again.
The drive from Manchester to our little town in Yorkshire took three hours. Every mile unspooled memoriesthe same winding roads, the same old stone cottages, the crisp autumn air. Nothing had changed.
The house was silent when I arrived. A woman in her mid-forties, fair-haired and dressed in black, stood on the porch. Beside her was a lanky boy with my fathers eyes.
“You must be Emily,” she said softly. “Im Sarah. This is Oliver, your brother.”
The word *brother* hung strangely in the air. I had a sibling Id never met.
“Mum said I had a sister,” Oliver piped up, staring at me with childish curiosity. “Is it true you ran away when you were fifteen?”
“Oliver!” Sarah scolded. “Come inside, Emily. Margarets waiting.”
The house smelled of fresh bread and loss. Aunt Margaret sat in the kitchen, older but still sharp as ever.
“Emily, love,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “Youre too thin. Are you eating properly?”
“Im fine, Aunt Margaret.”
“And where are you working now?”
“Reception at a hotel.”
Sarahs eyebrow twitched. “A hotel? I thought youd left to studybuild a career.”
There was no judgement, just confusion. But it stung all the same.
“Your father asked about you often,” Aunt Margaret murmured. “He was proud you stood on your own two feet.”
“Proud?” I couldnt keep the bitterness from my voice. “After he threw me out?”
“He didnt throw you out,” she snapped. “You left after that row.”
Sarah exchanged a glance with Oliver and stood. “Well pop round to the neighbours. Let you two talk.”
Once theyd gone, Aunt Margaret poured tea and sat across from me.
“Tell me about Daniel,” I said. “What really happened?”
She sighed. “Your father had his reasons for not approving. Daniel Wilson was nicking car parts from the garage and selling them. At first, your dad suspected the lads at workthen he found out it was him.”
“Why didnt he tell me?”
“He was afraid you wouldnt believe him. A girl of fifteen in love thinks her fathers the villain.”
I sat in silence, letting it sink in.
“What happened to Daniel?”
“Six months after you left, he got caught. Did a year inside, then moved to Liverpool. Never came back.”
The funeral was the next day. Half the town turned upmy father had been well-respected. After the burial, only family remained.
“The solicitors coming tomorrow,” Sarah said as she cleared the table. “James Whitaker wants to read the will.”
“Why not now?”
“Your father wanted to wait for you.”
I frowned. Had he known Id come? Or just hoped?
That evening, we sat together in the kitchen. Oliver did his homework; Sarah ironed clothes. A normal family sceneone where I felt like an outsider.
“Tell me about Dad,” I said. “What was he like these last years?”
Sarah thought for a moment. “A good husband. A devoted father. Hardworking. But sadespecially on your birthday. Hed say, I wonder how my Emilys getting on.”
“Mum, why didnt Dad ever tell me about Emily?” Oliver asked, looking up from his books.
“He did. You were just too young.”
“Then why didnt she visit?”
Sarah glanced at me. “Youd have to ask Emily that.”
“Pride,” I admitted. “Stupid, childish pride.”
The next morning, the solicitor arrivedJames Whitaker, a lean man in his sixties with a sharp suit and glasses. Behind him was David Thompson, Dads business partner, whom I remembered from childhood.
“Emily!” he beamed. “Youve grown into the spitting image of your mother!”
I shook his hand but couldnt smile. Something about his tone put me on edge.
The solicitor laid out the documents.
“Let us proceed with the reading of Charles Edward Hartleys last will and testament.”
His voice was dry, matter-of-fact. The house and garage went to the family. Then came the shock.
“Cash assets totalling £250,000, held in a savings account at Barclays, are bequeathed to daughter Emily Anne Hartley.”
The room fell silent. Sarah went pale. David scowled. Oliver just looked confused.
“£250,000?” I repeated. “Where did Dad get that kind of money?”
“Your father saved from the garage and other ventures for fifteen years,” James explained. “The account was in your name from birth.”
“Thats not right!” David burst out. “That money should go to his familyhis wife and son!”
“The will is legally binding,” James said calmly.
Sarah stayed quiet, but her face betrayed shock and hurt.
“Mrs. Hartley,” the solicitor said, “your husband left you a letter.”
Her hands shook as she opened it. Her expression shifted as she read.
“What does it say?” I asked.
She swallowed. “He wrote that the money was always meant for you. He wanted you to have a fresh start. Oliver and I have the house, the garage, and another account with £50,000.”
David turned red. “What about our partnership? Half that garage is mine! And part of that money!”
“Do you have documentation?” James asked.
“Of course! Charles and I built that business together!”
Once James left, the row began. David demanded his share; Sarah tried to calm things; Oliver shrank into his chair.
“Emily, you cant just take it all,” David argued. “Youve got family nowresponsibilities.”
“Family?” I shot back. “Fifteen years ago, I walked out with nothing!”
“Keep your voice down,” Sarah cut in. “Olivers here.”
The boy looked frightened. Guilt twisted in my chest.
“Sorry, Oliver,” I said quietly. “Grown-ups argue sometimes. Its nothing to worry about.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed wide.
That night, after David left, just the three of us remained. Sarah put Oliver to bed, and I wandered the house, touching familiar things.
On Dads desk lay a folder labelled *Emily*. I opened it.
Inside were dozens of lettersall to me. None ever sent.
*My dearest Emily, today you turned sixteen. Margaret says youre doing well. Im so proud*
*Emily, two years now. Every day I wondershould I have explained about Daniel instead of just forbidding it?*
*Love, Ive opened an account for you. I put money in every month. When you come home, its yours*
The letters told the story of a father who didnt know how to apologise but loved fiercely. Hed kept tabs on my life through others, celebrated my wins, and worried over my struggles.
One of the last ones hit hardest:
*Davids pushing to invest your money into the garage. Says itll grow. But this isnt for business. Its for you. So you can forgive this old fool and start anew.*
Tears dripped onto the page. So many wasted years. So much left unsaid.
“Emily? Where are you?” Sarah called.
I wiped my eyes and joined her in the kitchen.
“Couldnt sleep?” she asked.
“I found Dads letters.”
She nodded. “He wrote every month. I offered to post them, but hed say, Not yet. Shes not ready to forgive me.”
“How did you feel? About him leaving me everything?”
She hesitated. “At first, I was hurt. I thought of Olivers futurehis schooling, our needs. But then I realised: your father was fair. Oliver gets the house and business. You got a second chance. You left with nothing.”
“But £250,000”
“Your dad went without for fifteen years to save that. No holidays, no new car, no renovations. Everything for you.”
The next day, David returned, folder in hand, jaw set.
“Look, Emily,” he said, spreading papers on the table. “Our partnership agreement. Half the profits are rightfully mine.”
I studied the documents. Legally, he had a claim.
“Fine,” I said. “But not all £250,000. Your shares about £50,
