“You’re not his real daughteryou have no rights here,” hissed Alice at their father’s funeral, standing by the coffin with a cold glare. “So dont expect anything.”
Violet flinched as if struck. Clutching a bouquet of white roses, she couldnt believe the cruelty. Mourners whispered prayers, crossing themselves, while Alice stared with open disdain.
“Alice, pleasenot here,” Violet murmured. “Father isnt even buried yet.”
“Exactly*my* father,” Alice snapped. “His blood. And who are you? Just some orphan he took in out of pity.”
Violet laid the roses at the coffins head and stepped back, throat tight with unshed tears. Edward Whitmore lay in the white shirt shed bought him just days before, hands folded, face peaceful. He might have been sleeping, but hed never wake, never wish her good morning, never pat her head like he had for thirty years.
“Girls, whats this?” scolded Aunt Louise, a neighbour from down the lane. “Arguing at a funeralhave you no shame?”
“No ones arguing,” Alice dismissed. “Im just reminding certain people of their place.”
Aunt Louise shook her head and drifted away. Violet stood apart, a stranger among faces shed known since childhoodneighbours, Fathers colleagues, distant relatives. All had come to say goodbye, yet she suddenly felt she had no right to stand beside his daughter.
“Vi, how are you holding up?” asked Margaret, a friend from work, slipping an arm around her.
“Thank you for coming,” Violet whispered, hugging her.
“Whys Alice glaring at you like youre the enemy?”
“She thinks I shouldnt be here.”
“*Shouldnt?* You lived with Grandad Edward since you were five!”
Violet nodded, dabbing her eyes. She remembered the day hed brought her home from the orphanagea tall man with a tobacco-scented coat and a rumbling voice, showing her a tiny room with a childs bed. “This is yours now,” hed said.
“Violet, come here,” Alice called suddenly.
Bracing for another cut, Violet followedonly for Alice to grip her elbow and steer her into the mortuarys empty hall.
“We need to talk,” Alice said. “About the estate. You understand the house and cottage go to me, yes? Im his only blood daughter.”
Violet blinked. She hadnt thought of inheritance onceonly of arranging the burial, the wake, the notices.
“Alice, lets discuss this after the funeral”
“No, now. So theres no confusion later. Father left no will, so by law, first heirs are spouse and children. You were neither.”
“But he adopted me,” Violet protested. “I have the papers.”
Alice sneered. “Out of *charity*. And now youll cling to me for that house in town?”
“I dont want the house. Just his books. His photos. The rest is yours.”
“Oh, I *believe* that. They all say sountil they sue.”
Violets hands trembled. Thirty years in this family, calling Edward “Father,” thinking of Alice as a sisteronly to learn shed been tolerated, not loved.
“You know what?” Violet said softly. “I wont argue. Do what you want. Just bury Father properly.”
“Youll dictate how I bury *my own father?*”
“I will. Because *I* lived with him these last years. *I* nursed him when he was ill, while you visited once a month for half an hour.”
Alice flushed. “*I* was his blood! Youre just some orphanage castoff!”
The words hurt more than a slap. Violet turned and walked back to the coffin.
By morning, the rain fell thin and cold. At the church, Alice arrived late, her husband and children in tow, shooting Violet venomous looks. After the service, the procession wound to the graveside. Violet rode in the lead car, clutching red carnationsFathers favourite.
At the plot, Alice bossed mourners about wreaths and pallbearers. Violet stood silent, watching the earth swallow the man whod been her family for three decades.
“Forgive me, Papa,” she whispered. “I couldnt save you.”
Edward had died of a second heart attack in hospital. The doctors had done all they couldyet Violet blamed herself. She shouldve insisted on the surgery hed refused.
At the wake, stories flowedhow Edward, an engineer, had been respected at the factory, how hed doted on his girls after his wifes death.
“Remember when he brought Violet home?” chuckled Uncle Colin, a neighbour. “Tiny thing, scared stiff. He scooped her up and said, Now Ive two daughters.”
Alice stiffened. “Father was sentimental. Always picking up strays.”
“He loved her,” Aunt Louise cut in. “When Violet had pneumonia, he barely sleptjust sat by her bed, cooling her brow.”
Violet wept. He *had* loved her. Bought her school uniforms, helped her into university, gifted her the cottage when she marriedthough Alice had raged, demanding half.
(That marriage lasted four years. The cottage sold in the divorce.)
After the wake, Alice cornered her. “Show me this will.”
Violet handed it overa document signed a year prior, after Fathers first heart attack, dividing everything equally.
Alices face darkened. “Ill contest this. Prove he wasnt sound of mind.”
“Go ahead,” Violet said tiredly. “But until then, Ill need my things from the house.”
Alice smirked. “Ive changed the locks. Your rubbish is on the porch.”
At the solicitors, Violet learned contesting the will would be hardAlice had no grounds. “But brace for a long fight,” he warned.
Walking home, Violet thought of all shed lost in a week: Father, her place in the family, any hope of reconciliation.
But Edward had loved her. Called her his daughter. And for him, shed fightbecause to yield would betray the man whod given a lonely orphan a home.
