The relatives sneered at me for caring for “poor old Aunt Lizzie.” Their faces fell slack when the will was read, leaving me all her wealth and three houses.
“Off to see your rich aunt again?” My cousin Sophie’s voice dripped venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway.
I stayed silent. There was no point responding. This was their morning ritual.
“Leave her, Sophie,” Aunt Agatha drawled from the parlour, her voice thick with false concern. “Shes got her charity work to do.”
Their laughter rang out, sharp and rehearsed.
“I just promised Aunt Lizzie Id help seal the windows before winter.”
“Those windows havent needed sealing since 1947,” Sophie scoffed, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on a batty old woman who wont even leave you her moth-eaten stockings. You must have a real talent for self-sacrifice.”
Her eyes swept over my plain coat and worn shoes.
“Not everyone cares about inheritance, Sophie.”
“Oh please. Whats *your* motive, then? Spiritual enrichment from scrubbing floors in a council flat?”
I picked up my bag, stuffed with groceries for Elizabeth Whitmore and the new book shed asked for.
“My motive is helping someone I love.”
“*Love?*” Aunt Agatha shrieked, appearing in the doorway, her face twisted with old grudges. “That loved one sold Granddads cottageour family hometo buy herself a posh townhouse! Shes never given a penny to anyone!”
There it wasthe root of their hatred. The cottage in the Lake District, built by Granddad for all of us, signed over to Aunt Lizzie as the eldest. She sold it after his death. To them, it was betrayal.
I studied their faces, contorted with greed. Theyd never tried to understand her reasons.
They didnt care about the bond we shared. They never listened to her sharp wit, her dry humour, the way she taught me constellations and birdsong.
All they saw was an old woman in a faded dressing gown.
I saw the person who taught me to read.
“Youll see,” Sophie hissed as I left. “Shell leave her flat to some cult. And youll be left with nothing but your precious *kindness*.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Aunt Lizzies flat greeted me with the scent of dried lavender and old paper. Everything was simple, immaculately clean.
She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Cornwall coast. Beside it lay a tablet glowing with charts and figures.
“Ah, Clara, youre here.” She looked up, her eyes bright. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Whats this?” I nodded at the map.
“Oh, sorting out old holdings.” She smirked, tucking papers into a folder. I caught glimpses*lease agreement*, *land registry*.
“More lectures from the family?” she asked, reading my mood.
I shrugged.
“They count every penny, Clara. But they miss everything that 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 Agatha called, sickly sweet.
“Clara, darling. Hows our dear Elizabeth?”
I stiffened.
“Shes well. Thank you.”
“I was thinking Sophies friend, an estate agent, was asking about properties in her area. We should *help* Lizziecheck her paperwork, make sure shes not being swindled.”
“I doubt she needs help.”
“Oh, but shes *elderly*! You should ask about her will. Family must look after family.”
Nausea rose in my throat.
“I wont be asking. Goodbye.”
Next visit, Aunt Lizzie was unsettled.
“A man came. Said he was an insurance assessor. Asked about wiring, but his questionsClara, it was like an interrogation. Ownership, accounts, *family*.”
I froze. Agathas scheme, more cunning than Id thought.
“He kept hinting that the elderly get tricked. Like he was preparing me for something.”
As I washed dishes, Lizzie spoke on the phone, her tone brisk.
“No, Mr. Archibald, we wont raise rents mid-season. Reputation matters more than quick profit.”
She hung up, catching my surprise, and winked.
“Business, Clara. Small ventures.”
She offered no explanation. I didnt press.
The breaking point came on my birthday. Aunt Lizzie greeted me with trembling hands, untouched tea gone cold.
“Sophie visited,” she whispered. “To wish you well. In absentia.”
Her eyes avoided mine.
“What did she say?”
“That you complain about me. That youre tired. That youre waiting for for it to be over.” Her voice cracked. “She said you mock me behind my back.”
Theyd struck where it hurt mostour trust.
Something inside me snapped. All that kindness, that patience, vanished. Only icy clarity remained. *Enough.*
I took her freezing hands.
“You know its lies.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“I know. But it *hurts*.” She swallowed. “After what happened with your granddad When he died, your uncleAgathas husbanddemanded his share. *Immediately.*”
Her voice wavered.
“Id sunk everything into land near St. Ives. I begged for a year. He refused. The cottage or nothing. So I gave it. And Agatha told everyone I *stole* it.”
Now I understood. Their hatred thrived on lies theyd crafted.
“They dont deserve your tears,” I said firmly. “And I wont let them hurt you again.”
That night, I made my decision. No more victim.
Next day, I called Aunt Agatha.
“You wanted clarity? Aunt Lizzies unwell. Shes putting affairs in order. Come tomorrow at seven. Bring Sophie.”
“Has she decided something?” Greed tinged her voice.
“Yes. Youll find it *very* interesting.”
At seven sharp, the doorbell rang. Agatha and Sophie swept in, triumphant.
Aunt Lizzie sat calmly at the table. I stood beside her. A stranger in a suitMr. Archibaldoccupied the third chair.
“Good evening,” he said. “Elizabeth wished to make a formal statement regarding her estate.”
“What estate?” Sophie snorted.
“Elizabeth is sole owner of three freehold cottages in St. Ives. She also holds an investment portfolio exceeding the value of your home by twentyfold.”
Sophies jaw dropped.
“Thisthis is a mistake,” Agatha whispered.
“I lived as I chose,” Aunt Lizzie said coolly. “Money loves silence.”
Mr. Archibald continued.
“Elizabeth is signing deeds to all properties, including this flat and financial assets, to her great-niece, Clara Whitmore. Business management transfers to her as well.”
He handed me the papers.
“*Why her?*” Sophie screeched.
“Family isnt those who wait for your death to divide spoils,” Aunt Lizzie said softly. “Its who brings you medicine in the night.”
Her gaze met mine, warm.
“Clara saw me as a person. She never asked for anything. So she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Agatha screamed. “Well sue!”
“All documents are notarised,” Mr. Archibald said calmly. “We also have recordings of your assessor and all threatening calls. Attempted fraud against an elderly person.”
He closed the file. Game over.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door open. “With your greed and lies. Leave.”
They slunk out, crushed.
Aunt Lizzie hugged me tight.
“Well, Clara. Now we run things together. Ready?”
I glanced at the Cornwall map. Justice had a shoreline.
Epilogue
Six months later, I quit my job. Managing three holiday cottages was all-consuming.
Aunt Lizzienow my “business guru”proved a brilliant mentor. Her council flat became our HQ.
We didnt move. She loved her neighbourhood. What changed wasnt place, but power. I bought a new car but still brought her groceries and books.
Agatha and Sophie sued. The case dragged on. They painted me as manipulative, Aunt Lizzie as senile. Mr. Archibald dismantled them with recordings and witnesses. They lost, left with staggering legal fees.
Then they vanished. Gossips said Agatha sold her house. Moved to some dismal outskirts.
Once, Sophie called. Empty apologies, begging for money.
“Mums health no work Clara, were *family*”
I listened in silence. The old Clara was gone.
“Youre right, Sophie. Were relatives. But not family. Goodbye.”
I hung up. Some bridges must burn to keep hell behind you.
One autumn evening, we sat on a terrace in St. Ives.
“I never planned
