I had to leave townGrandma had left a will, and I’d inherited a house by the sea. True, it was old and sprawling. As a child, I’d spent every summer holiday there
The city air felt particularly stifling the day the letter arrived. The envelope was yellowed with age and carried the scent of the sea, salt, and something achingly familiarthe fragrance of childhood. With trembling fingers, I tore it open and read the neat lines penned in old-fashioned script. Grandma Sophie had left me her house, the very one by the blue sea where I’d lived the best summers of my life.
My heart raced, joy tangled with grief. I could almost feel the hot sand under my bare feet, hear the crash of the waves, and recall the gentle touch of Grandmas hands as shed always greeted me at the door.
I called Mark straight away. His voice on the phone sounded distant, faintly irritated, as if Id interrupted something far more important.
“Mark, I need to go away,” I began, forcing steadiness into my voice even as my chest tightened. “Grandma she left a will. The house by the seaits mine now.”
Silence on the other end.
“The house? That old, half-ruined place?” His tone carried a mocking edge.
“Its not half-ruined!” I snapped. “Its a grand old house, full of history. You remember, I spent every summer there. My parents sent me because Grandma Sophie adored meshed take me to the beach, holding my hand when I was little. Later, Id run wild with the neighbours kids. Oh, the fun we had! Packing sandwiches and fruit, staying out till dusksun, waves, laughter”
“And how long will you be gone?” His dry, businesslike voice jerked me back to the stifling city reality.
“I dont know exactly, but certainly not just three days,” I sighed. “I need to see the place, sort things out. I havent been there in yearsnot since my second year at university. Ive already taken leave. And you” I hesitated, pouring hope into my words, “you could come after. Its only a days drive. Leave in the morning, arrive by evening. Take time off, and well have a seaside holiday.”
“Seaside doesnt much appeal to me,” came his indifferent reply. “Fine, no promisesIll see about work”
His words hung heavy in the air. Hed “see”just like he always did, before staying behind, wrapped up in affairs that always mattered more than me.
Three days passed. My bags were packed, my heart fluttering with anticipation and a secret hope Mark might change his minddrive me to the station, kiss me goodbye, say hed miss me. Instead, three hours before my train, his call came.
“Alice, sorry, cant take you. Urgent work. Youll manage a taxi, right?” His voice held a false note.
“Of course,” I replied, resentment thick in my throat. “Dont worry.”
I hailed a cab, staring blankly out the window as the city blurred past. Then my heart stopped. At a traffic light stood his car. And not just idlingMark, my Mark, was gallantly helping a slender young woman in a summer dress step out. They smiled at each other, heading into a cosy corner café.
“Stop, please!” My voice shook. “Ill pay the fareI need to get out!”
I stormed into the café. There they were, leaning over a shared menu, fingers nearly touching.
“Hello,” I said, icy sharp. “Busy, I see. Just one thinggoodbye. Dont call. Ever.”
I left before he could speak, ignoring his shouts. The taxi ride, the stuffy train carriage, the winding country roadsI spent them all seething, replaying that moment: his smile, meant for someone else. Traitor. Liar.
The silent, gruff taxi driver finally stopped at tall iron gates draped in ivy. “Were here,” he grunted.
I paid, hauled my bags out. The driver called after me, “Give us a ring if you need” before speeding off, leaving me alone before my newyet ancienthome.
The silence was deafening. The air, thick and sweet, smelled of lavender, sea, and time-worn dust. I fumbled with the heavy antique keys Grandma had given me, finally unlocking the rusted padlock. It clicked like a gunshotheralding a new life.
The creaking gates swung open. The garden was overgrown, Grandmas flowerbeds wild with stubborn blooms. Shed planted them every spring, filling summers with fragrance. Now, in early July, the heat shimmered.
Inside, the house was vast, dusty, frozen in time. The grand staircase, the stained-glass window casting jewel-toned lightit was all mine now.
Neighbours remembered meAunt Hannah, mother of my childhood friend Vera. She mentioned her son, Zach, now divorced and living with her.
Zach arrived the next daytall, broad-shouldered, with wind-tanned skin and laughing brown eyes. He helped clean the enormous crystal chandelier, teased me about stealing apples as a child, and stayed to assist with the endless chores.
By evening, we went to a seaside café, then swam in the warm, gentle sea. He walked me home, and for the first time in years, I fell asleep smiling.
When Mark called that night, repentant, I hung up. Grandmas voice echoed in my mind: “Make the right choice.”
I did.
Time passed. The house came alivelaughter replaced silence, fires burned in the hearth, the kitchen smelled of baking. I married Zacha quiet, heartfelt wedding on the terrace, waves as our witness.
Now, hand resting on the slight curve of my belly, I stood with Zach under the stars. The chandelier inside tinkled softly, as if in answer.
“Thank you, Grandma,” I whispered. “For the house. For the legacy. And for helping me choose right.”
