My relatives used to laugh at me for taking care of “poor old Auntie.” Their faces fell when the will was read, leaving me her entire fortunethree houses and all her assets.
“Off to see your rich lady again?” My cousin Jessicas voice dripped with venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway.
I stayed silent. There was no point answering. This was their morning ritual.
“Leave her, Jess,” Aunt Margaret called lazily from the sitting room. “Shes got her charity work to do. Playing the saint.”
Their laughter rang out, sharp and rehearsed.
“I just promised Aunt Elizabeth Id help with the windows before winter.”
“Those windows were last done in the Blitz,” Jessica sneered, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on some old bat who wont even leave you a pair of holey tights. Thats talent.”
Her eyes raked over my plain coat and shoes.
“Not everyones after an inheritance, Jess.”
“Oh really? What *are* you after, then? Spiritual enlightenment from scrubbing floors in a council flat?”
I picked up my baggroceries for Elizabeth and the book shed asked for.
“My goal is to help someone I care about.”
“Care about?” Aunt Margaret gasped, appearing in the doorway, her face twisted with old resentment. “That caring woman sold Grandads cottageour familys placejust to buy herself a poky flat in town! Shes never given a penny to anyone!”
There it wasthe root of their bitterness. The cottage in the Lake District, built by Grandad for us all. Elizabeth, as the eldest, inherited it and sold it after he died. To them, it was betrayal.
I studied their faces, contorted with greed and spite. Theyd never tried to understand her reasons.
They didnt care about the bond I shared with my great-aunther sharp wit, her stories, the way shed taught me to read constellations and bird calls.
They saw only a frail woman in a worn-out cardigan.
“Youll see,” Jessica hissed as I left. “Shell leave her flat to some cult. And youll be left with nothing but your precious *goodness*.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Elizabeths flat smelled of dried herbs and old books. Simple, immaculate. She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Cornish coast, her tablet open beside her.
“Ah, Claire, youre here.” Her eyes lit up. “Just sorting out some old paperwork.”
She tucked the map away, but not before I glimpsed “lease agreement” and “land registry.”
“Family giving you grief again?” she asked, reading my mood.
I shrugged.
“They count every penny, Claire. But they miss what matters.” She took the book Id brought, her face softening. “Thank you, dear. Youre the only one who knows what I really need.”
Weeks later, Aunt Margaret called, sickly sweet. “Claire, darling. Hows our Elizabeth?”
I tensed. “Shes fine. Thanks.”
“I was thinking Jesss friend, an estate agent, might help with her *properties*. Make sure everythings in order. Free consultationwe wouldnt want her swindled.”
“I dont think she needs help.”
“Of course she does! At her age! Ask about the will, at least. Were *family*.”
Nausea rose in my throat. “I wont. Goodbye.”
Next visit, Elizabeth was unsettled. “A man came. Said he was from an insurance firm. Asked about wiring, then grilled meownership, accounts, *family*.”
I froze. Aunt Margarets scheme.
“He kept hinting that the elderly get tricked. Like he was preparing me for something.”
As I washed up, Elizabeth took a call, her tone brisk. “No, Mr. Whitmore, we wont raise rents mid-season. Reputations worth more than quick profit.”
She caught my surprised look and winked. “Just business, Claire.”
The breaking point came on my birthday. Elizabeth greeted me with trembling hands.
“Jessica came,” she whispered. “Said you complain about me. That youre just waiting for me to die”
My stomach dropped. Theyd struck at our trust.
I took her icy hands. “Its all lies. You know that.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I do. But it hurts After what happened with Grandad.”
She finally told me: When he died, her brother-in-law demanded his shareimmediately. Her money was tied up in land near St Ives. She begged for time. He refused. “The cottage or nothing.”
So she gave it up. And Aunt Margaret spun it as theft.
“Theyre not worth your tears,” I said coldly. “I wont let them hurt you again.”
The next day, I called Aunt Margaret. “You wanted clarity? Elizabeths unwell. Shes putting affairs in order. Come tomorrow at seven. Bring Jess.”
“Has she decided something?” Greed sharpened her voice.
“Oh, youll find it very interesting.”
At seven, they swept in, triumphant. Elizabeth sat calmly at the table. I stood beside her. A man in a suitMr. Whitmorewaited.
“Good evening,” he said. “Elizabeth wished to make a formal statement regarding her assets.”
“What assets?” Jessica scoffed.
“Elizabeth owns three freehold cottages in St Ives. Plus an investment portfolio worth twenty times your current propertys value.”
Aunt Margaret paled. “Thisthis is a mistake.”
“I lived as I chose,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Money prefers silence.”
Mr. Whitmore continued: “Elizabeth is signing over all assetsincluding this flatto her great-niece, Claire. The business transfers to her as well.”
“*Why her?!*” Jessica shrieked.
“Family, Jessica, isnt those waiting for you to die. Its who brings your medicine at midnight.”
Elizabeth met my eyes warmly. “Claire saw the person, not the purse. She never asked. So she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Aunt Margaret shrilled. “Well sue!”
“Documents are notarized,” Mr. Whitmore said coolly. “And we have records of your insurance assessorand your threats. Attempted fraud against an elderly person.”
He closed the file. Game over.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door. “With your greed and lies. Get out.”
They left, crushed.
Elizabeth hugged me tight. “Well, Claire. Now weve got estates to manage. Ready?”
I looked at the Cornish map. Justice, at last.
**Epilogue**
Six months on, I quit my job. Managing the cottages became my life.
Elizabethnow my “business guru”was a natural mentor. We stayed in her council flat. The change wasnt placeit was power.
Aunt Margaret and Jess sued. Lost. Left with lawyer debts, they vanishedsold up, moved to some grim suburb.
Once, Jess called, hollow-voiced: “Mums ill No work Claire, were *family*”
I listened, silent. That old Claire was gone.
“Youre right, Jess. Were relatives. But not family. Goodbye.”
Some bridges must burn.
One autumn evening, we sat on a cottage terrace in St Ives.
“I never meant to amass wealth,” Elizabeth mused. “We just worked hard. Wanted freedomnot mansions.”
She turned to me. “This isnt a reward, Claire. Its a tool. To live as *you* choosenot as others expect.”
She grinned wryly. “And to buy every book you fancy. All yours now.”
I laughed and hugged her.
Wealth wasnt moneyit was watching the sunset beside someone you loved, knowing tomorrow was yours to shape.
And that was priceless.
