Eleanor Whitmore lunged for the envelope with such a sudden, sharp movement that the whole table jumped, the silver spoons on the china rattling against the plates. Her fingers, painted a glossy crimson, dug into the paper as if they were nails. The solicitor, cold and unflinching, pressed his hand flat over hers.
Im sorry, madam, he said in an even tone this does not belong to you.
A hush fell over the room, heavy as a church crypt. Only the steady tick of the grandfather clock and the distant cry of a child playing in the garden broke the silence. James Whitmore curled into his armchair, as if he might vanish; the woman beside him watched with puzzled curiosity, understanding nothing at all.
I stood rooted to the spot. A decade ago I would have trembled, begged them not to disgrace me. Now I knew their hold over me had finally snapped.
The solicitor tore the envelope open and slid out a few pages. The first bore the signature of my late fatherinlaw, Arthur Whitmore, who had passed away only months before. The solicitors voice rang clear and firm:
The will was drawn up three months before his death. The sole heir is Felicity Whitmore.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the relatives. Aunts exchanged nervous glances, uncles cleared their throats, a child giggled obliviously.
What? Eleanor Whitmore shrieked. This is a lie! He would never have done such a thing!
Its written in black and white, the solicitor continued. I leave all my estate, including the house and the land, to the former wife of my son, who was not voluntarily removed from the family but was cast out. He even left a note explaining why.
James whispered softly. His new wife, Claire, pulled away from him sharply, as though she were a stranger.
I drew a deep breath. I had known about the will long before this meeting. But hearing it spoken aloud, before everyone, carried a different weight.
So this is the motherinlaw rasped. He always felt sorry for you! Always! And now you want to take the house from us?
I rose. My voice was calm, yet as hard as steel:
Im not taking anything. You stole ten years of my life when you chased me away. But your husband saw the truth. He decided otherwise.
Dont you dare! she roared. Youre nothing!
I am the owner of this house, I replied without hesitation.
Silence grew thick. Every eye fixed on me.
But I added after a pause, I wont drive you out. I have my own home and my own business. All I seek is justice.
James lifted his gaze, as if he could not believe what he was hearing:
So youre leaving it to us?
Im granting you the right to live here, I explained. But the property is mine. That means you no longer have the power to humiliate me.
Eleanor Whitmore looked shattered. Her voice trembled, dropping to a whisper:
You want to ruin me
I met her stare straight on:
No. I want you to feel what it is like to depend on anothers will.
The solicitor gathered the documents and stood upright.
Everything is legally binding. From today, the owner is Miss Felicity Whitmore.
I pressed a brief kiss to his cheek and stepped out into the evening. The air was crisp, the sun sinking behind the ancient pear tree that shaded the garden. I walked lightly, as if I were floating.
Rex, my old terrier, had long since passed, yet I thought I heard his familiar bark echoing once more, not to chase away a broken woman but to herald a victor.
I smiled and moved forward, because now no one could call me nothing. I was myself, and that was enough to reclaim my dignity and my life.
