14October
Ive been mulling over the tangled web of my family for weeks now, and I finally felt the need to set it down on paper. It all began, as it often does in England, with a legacy that never quite settled where it should.
My motherinlaw, Susan Archer, long ago transferred the ownership of her modest terraced house in Birmingham and the little cottage off the Cotswolds to her only daughter, Emily. So little Emily wont have to fight over the inheritance later, Susan had said with a smile that never quite reached her eyes when she looked at my husband, Andrew, and me. At the time I didnt think much of it; I simply assumed Susan would be a supportive presence in our lives.
Soon enough, it became clear that Susans affection lay solely with herself and Emily Andrews younger sister, who had always been the golden child. Susans relationship with Andrews late father had been distant; she never seemed to warm to him, and his memory faded quickly after his death a couple of years before I met Andrew.
Andrew once confided, halfjoking, that his mother saw him only as a source of income. He adored her, though, and the entire estate a threebedroom flat in Manchester, a cosy cottage suitable for yearround living, a modest car and its garage was entirely Susans. When Andrew announced his engagement, Susan appeared almost relieved; she thought his departure from the family home would free up space for her own plans. She never offered any help to the newlyweds, insisting, Youre a man, you must earn your own keep. My property is for Emily.
I didnt take offense at Susans words, but I felt a pang of pity for Andrew, who seemed perpetually reminded that his mothers favourite was Emily. My own mother, Margaret Jones, however, was a different story. She had once lived in a cramped onebedroom flat and, remembering the strain of staying with my husbands parents, sold her flat and the cottage to give Andrew and me a deposit on a mortgage. She moved into the tiny flat herself, joking, Why should I live in a palace when theres nothing to clean? She was generous, paying for my physiotherapy after a foot fracture, arranging a warm spot in a local health resort, and covering the yearly fees for a spa retreat.
When Andrews career took off he moved from a junior engineer to production manager at a large automotive plant my mother never once complained. She simply said, Well manage; you can stay with us for a while if you need to. She was kind and loving, and I could never thank her enough.
I had hoped Susan would at least acknowledge Andrews progress and perhaps offer a word of pride, but she brushed me off with a dismissive, At least hes not living on his mothers apron string. She gushed about Emilys boyfriend, a smoothtalking entrepreneur who seemed to glide through life like butter on toast. In reality, his fortunes were shaky; he vanished the day Emily discovered she was pregnant, leaving her to deliver a daughter, little Charlotte, on her own. Susan, ever quick to praise, called Emily what a marvelous mother, yet she barely remembered Charlottes birthday in the past five years.
Neither Susan nor Emily ever asked us for money, despite never having worked a day in their lives. Andrew once mentioned that after his fathers death, some savings were tucked away, and Susan lived off the dividends, though I never pressed for figures. Later, it emerged that Susan had left Emily her own flat in the city centre, which they rented out for a tidy sum.
For fifteen years two families drifted parallel to each other. Andrew would pop by to wish Susan a happy birthday or a merry Christmas, never staying more than half an hour. My mother would gently chide me, You must show some respect to your husbands mother; were all family. I would retort, She barely looks at us, mum. Shes busy gossiping about Emily and Charlotte, as if she doesnt even recognise us on the street. It was true Susan showed no interest in my son, the one shed once called her only heir.
Life in our small market town meant the gossip never stayed far. Emily eventually married, using the inherited flat as a wedding gift. When my mother tried to congratulate her sisterinlaw, Susan snapped, Theres no point spending money; Emily and her husband Paul have a costly holiday lined up and need to renovate their flat. The marriage later fell apart, and the same flat was split between the exspouses. Emily splurged her share on a short break, saying she needed a breather after the stress.
All the while, Charlotte lived with her grandmother, fully supported by Susan, who boasted of being a doting grandmother. When my own mother fell ill, Andrew and I tried everything trips abroad, specialist appointments but nothing could turn the tide. Susan never called to offer condolences; instead, she was suddenly interested in whether Andrew could help sell an old car, claiming Emily needed cash urgently.
Thats when I first heard Andrews voice raise in anger, an unfamiliar profanity slipping out. After that, he stopped speaking to his mother altogether, only returning when neighbours reported a flood at Susans old family home. The house was empty; Susan, her sister, and her niece had fled to the seaside and ignored the phone calls. The seaside trip turned out to be a turning point for Emily. There she met Vladimir, a charismatic but penniless investor who claimed to love her fiercely. He dismissed both Susan and Charlotte as irrelevant, yet hinted he might need the flat for his schemes.
For my own disappointment, Susan had already transferred her property to Emily years ago, saying, So little Emily wont have to fight over the inheritance. Now Susan seemed uneasy, perhaps fearing what Vladimir had done to Emily. She called Andrew out of the blue: Andrew, speak with your sister. Vladimir is a lovely man and loves Emily, but Im scared shes falling under his spell. Andrew answered cautiously, We havent spoken much with Emily for years. What am I supposed to say? Susan snapped, I knew there was no hope with you! and hung up.
I felt a strange tug of worry after that call. Should we find out whats happening there? I asked Andrew. He replied sharply, I have no desire to get involved. As long as theyre alive and well, thats enough for me.
Six months later Susan appeared at our door, a frail figure with tired eyes, her once vibrant energy drained. Emily sold our flat, she whispered, tears welling, and I dont know where she lives now. Please, find my daughter. She didnt even glance at me. Where are you living now? Andrew asked. Not me, us. Were with Charlotte at the cottage, she sobbed. I dont know what Vladimir has done, but he seems to have bewitched Emily.
According to Susan, the man who had taken Emilys heart vanished with her and the money, leaving her a ghost. She clung to the hope that the police would help, but Andrew sighed, Theyll probably throw the case away. Susan left emptyhanded, now begging us to take Charlotte in, as her pension barely covers the basics and her health is failing. While we wrestle with that decision, Andrew still brings her groceries and a few pounds now and then. Emily never calls.
Writing all this down makes the whole saga feel both absurd and unbearably real. I still cant tell whether Im more frightened by Susans desperation, Andrews resignation, or the way our families have drifted into separate currents, each pulling at the same thread of love, duty, and inheritance. All I know is that tomorrow Ill have to decide whether to open my door to a granddaughter I barely know, or to keep my own little world intact.
