The Richardsons laughed at me for taking care of “poor old Aunt Lydia.” Their faces fell when the will was read, leaving me her entire estatethree houses and all her wealth.
“Off to see your rich old lady again?”
My cousin Sophie’s voice dripped venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway. I didnt bother answering. This was their morning ritual.
“Leave her, Soph,” Aunt Margaret muttered lazily from the sitting room. “She’s got her charity work.”
Their laughter was sharp, rehearsed.
“I just promised Aunt Lydia I’d help with the windows before winter.”
“Those windows havent needed sealing since the Blitz,” Sophie scoffed, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on an old woman who wont even leave you a pair of tights. That takes real talent.”
Her eyes raked over my plain coat and scuffed shoes.
“Not everyones after an inheritance, Sophie.”
“Oh? So whats your grand plan? Spiritual enlightenment scrubbing floors in her bungalow?”
I grabbed my bagfood for Lydia and the book shed asked for.
“My plan is helping someone I love.”
“Love?” Aunt Margarets shrill voice cut through as she appeared in the doorway, face twisted with old resentment. “That woman sold Granddads cottageour familys retreatto buy herself a flat in Mayfair! Shes never given a penny to anyone!”
There it was. The root of their hatred. The cottage in the Lake District, built for the whole family, which Lydiaeldest daughterinherited and sold after Granddads death. To them, it was betrayal.
I watched their faces, contorted with greed and bitterness. Theyd never tried to understand her.
They didnt care about the bond we shared. Her stories, her sharp wit, her dry humour. They saw a frail woman in a worn dressing gown.
I saw the woman whod taught me to read, whod pointed out constellations and named every birdcall in the garden.
“Mark my words,” Sophie hissed as I left. “Shell leave everything to some cult. Youll end up with nothing. And your precious *saintliness*.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Lydias flat smelled of lavender and old books. Neat, sparse, but immaculate.
She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Cornish coast, documents and a tablet with spreadsheets beside her.
“Ah, Clara, youre here.” Her eyes brightened. “Keeping busy, as always.”
“Whats this?” I nodded at the map.
“Just sorting out old affairs.” She smiled slyly, tucking away papers, but I caught *lease agreement* and *land registry* before she closed the folder.
“Family giving you trouble again?” She read me effortlessly.
I shrugged.
“They count every penny, Clara. But never see what matters. Well, thats their problem.”
She took the book Id brought, face softening. “Thank you, darling. Youre the only one who knows what I really need.”
Weeks later, Aunt Margaret called. Her voice sickly sweet.
“Clara, darling. Hows our dear Lydia?”
I stiffened.
“Shes fine. Thanks.”
“I was thinking Sophies friend, an estate agent, was asking about properties in her area. We should *help* Lydiamake sure her affairs are in order. Hed advise her, free of charge. So she isnt *taken advantage of*.”
“I doubt she needs help.”
“But shes *elderly*! You should ask about the will. Were *family*we ought to look out for each other.”
Nausea rose in my throat.
“I wont ask. Goodbye.”
Next visit, Lydia was shaken.
“A man came. Said he was a surveyor for an insurance firm. Asked about wiring, but his questionsownership, accounts, relativeslike an interrogation.”
I froze. Margarets scheme, more cunning than Id thought.
“He kept hinting at *elder exploitation*,” Lydia murmured.
Later, she took a call, voice crisp.
“No, Mr. Whitmore, we wont raise rents mid-season. Reputations worth more than quick profit.”
She caught my surprised look and winked. “*Business*, Clara.”
The breaking point came on my birthday. Lydia greeted me with worry. An untouched teacup sat on the table.
“Sophie visited,” she whispered. “*Sent her regards*.”
Her hands trembled.
“What did she say?”
“That you complain about me. That youre *waiting for it all to end*.” Lydias voice cracked. “That you mock me behind my back.”
Theyd struck where it hurt mostour trust.
Something in me shattered. The kindness Id clung to vanished. Only cold clarity remained.
I took Lydias icy hand.
“You know thats a lie.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I do. But it *hurts* After what happened with your grandfather”
For the first time, she spoke of it.
“When he died, your uncleMargarets husbanddemanded his share. *Immediately*. My money was tied up in land near Brighton. I begged for a year. He refused. So I gave him the cottage. And Margaret told everyone I *stole* it.”
Now it made sense. Their hatred, built on lies theyd crafted.
“They dont deserve your tears,” I said. “And I wont let them hurt you again.”
Decision made. No more victim.
Next day, I called Margaret.
“You wanted clarity? Lydias unwell. Shes putting affairs in order. Come tomorrow, seven. Bring Sophie.”
“…Has she decided something?” Greed laced her voice.
“Oh yes. Youll *love* this.”
At seven sharp, the doorbell rang. Margaret and Sophie swept in, triumphant.
Lydia sat calmly at the table. I stood beside her. A stranger in a suitMr. Whitmoreoccupied the third chair.
“Good evening,” he said. “Lydia wished to make an official statement regarding her estate.”
“What estate?” Sophie sneered.
“Lydia owns three freehold cottages in Brighton. Plus an investment portfolio worth” He paused. “Twenty times the value of your current residence.”
Sophies face slackened.
“Thisthis is a mistake,” Margaret stammered.
“I lived as I chose,” Lydia said firmly. “Money loves silence.”
Whitmore continued.
“Lydias signing deeds and assetsincluding this flatover to Clara. The business transfers to her as well.”
Sophie shrieked. “*Why her?!*”
“Family, Sophie, isnt who counts your days. Its who brings you medicine at midnight.”
Lydias gaze met mine, warm.
“Clara saw *me*, not a paycheck. She never asked for a thing. So she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Margaret screamed. “Well sue!”
“Documents are certified,” Whitmore said coolly. “And we have recordings of your *surveyor* and your threats. Attempted fraud against an elder.”
He closed the file. Game over.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door. “With your greed and lies. *Leave*.”
They slunk out, crushed.
Lydia hugged me tight.
“Well, Clara. Now we manage things *together*. Ready?”
I looked at the Cornish map. This was justice.
### Epilogue
Six months later, I quit my job. Managing three cottages was a full-time role.
Lydianow my “*business mentor*”was a natural teacher. Her tiny flat became our HQ.
We didnt move. Lydia loved her neighbourhood. What changed wasnt placeit was *power*. I bought a new car, but still brought her groceries and books.
Margaret and Sophie sued. The case dragged on. They painted Lydia as senile, me as manipulative. Whitmore dismantled them with easerecordings, evidence. They lost, left with crushing legal fees.
After that, they vanished. Rumor said Margaret sold her house. Moved to some dismal suburb.
Once, Sophie called. Empty apologies, pleading for money.
“Mums health No work Clara, were *family*”
I listened. The old Clara was gone.
“Youre right, Soph. Were related. But were not *family*. Goodbye.”
Some bridges must burn.
One autumn evening, we sat on the terrace of *our* Brighton cottage.
“I didnt plan this, you know,” Lydia mused. “Just worked hard. Married a clever man. We wanted freedomnot mansions.”
She turned to me.
“These houses, this money theyre not rewards, Clara. Theyre *tools*. To live as *you* choosenot as others expect.”
To tell greedy parasites to sod off.
Her sly smile returned.
“And to buy *any* book you fancy. All
