Planet Pulse (2025)

23/08/2025

**The Last Carriage**

I watched as Evelyn strolled leisurely into the supermarket, observing the flurry of activity around her—especially the men, all rushing about ahead of Mothering Sunday. She had always loved this day, back when her husband, Thomas, would bring her a bouquet, and they’d make a little occasion of it. But now, years after his passing, Evelyn lived alone.

At fifty-eight, she’d seen enough of her friends’ misfortunes with love to bother starting over.

"All the decent men are long taken," she’d tell her friend Margaret over tea at the café. "And I’ve no interest in settling for just anyone. The hassle isn’t worth it. Yes, it gets lonely, but the children and grandchildren visit. Honestly, Marg, I’ve grown used to life as it is."

Margaret, happily married to her rock of a husband, always felt a pang of sadness for Evelyn—such a good woman, widowed too soon.

"You never know, love," Margaret would say, nudging her gently. "Might still meet someone special."

"Oh, don’t be daft," Evelyn would laugh. "Where on earth would I find a decent man at this age? Let’s talk about something else." And they’d chatter on about their families, their grandchildren, the usual.

Evelyn had indeed settled into solitude. But tonight, despite her weariness from the bustle, she needed groceries. Early spring clung to the air, and wet snowflakes stuck to her coat. Her son, James, had popped by earlier with flowers.

"Mum, here—I won’t make it Sunday. We’re off to the countryside with friends. You’re welcome to join."

"Thank you, love, but I’d rather stay in. Besides, my head’s been bothering me—spring coming and all."

Lost in thought, she wandered into the supermarket, picked up a few things, and joined the queue at the till. Amused, she eyed the frantic men around her.

"Suddenly, they all remember they’ve got wives," she mused, watching them grab last-minute tulips or daffodils. "Lucky them—only one day a year they have to fuss. Women do this every week."

Then she caught it—a rich, woody cologne from the tall, silver-haired man in front of her. His trolley was piled high.

"Expensive scent—must be handsome," she thought idly, stealing glances at his profile. "Someone’s husband, clearly. Look at all that shopping."

One hand gripped the trolley; the other held his phone. His answers were clipped.

"Yes, got it. Yes, that too. Be home soon."

"Talking to his wife, no doubt," Evelyn sighed.

As he tucked the phone away, it slipped. Without thinking, she snatched it midair before it hit the tiled floor. He spun around, and the look he gave her—well, it sent a jolt straight through her.

"Bloody hell, not now," she scolded herself, flustered.

"Thank you," he said, taking it back with a warm smile. "Now I owe you one."

"Oh, it was nothing," she murmured.

He paid and hurried off, trolley rattling toward the car park.

"That’s that, then," she thought, exhaling as she checked out.

Bag in hand, she stepped outside—and nearly collided with him. He’d waited, hood up against the snow.

"Oliver," he introduced himself.

"Evelyn," she managed, pulse quickening.

"Truly, thank you for catching my phone," he said. "Would you… give me your number?"

Hypnotised, she did. He thanked her, promised to call, and vanished into the snowy traffic.

"What on earth just happened?" she wondered, trudging home.

Later, changed into her cosy jumper and thick socks, she settled in with the telly. A favourite show was on—ordinary people singing their hearts out, their stories weaving tales of unexpected love and second chances.

Midway through, her phone rang.

"Evelyn? It’s Oliver. May I come over?" His deep voice nearly made her drop the phone.

"Y-yes, of course," she blurted, then panicked. Had she just agreed without thinking?

"Lovely. Though… I won’t be alone."

"Oh." Her heart sank. "Right."

He hung up before she could ask more.

"His wife, then. Coming to thank me properly," she groaned, eyeing her reflection. "Should’ve changed. Put on some lipstick. I look like a sack of potatoes in these socks."

The doorbell rang. She opened it—and a shaggy golden retriever barrelled into her.

"Goodness!" she laughed, steadying herself.

"Sorry—this is Charlie. I did say I wouldn’t be alone."

There they stood, both dusted with snow—Oliver holding a bouquet of red roses, and Charlie, tail wagging furiously.

"I thought you meant your wife," she admitted.

"Ex-wife," he corrected with a wry smile. "Ran off to Spain with some bloke half her age."

"But all those groceries…?"

"For my mum. She gives me lists—I shop, she cooks. Sister too, sometimes, when she’s minding the grandkids."

Flustered, she ushered him in, cursing her frumpy appearance.

"I’ll put the kettle on," she said, fleeing to the kitchen. …
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23/08/2025

On a warm summer afternoon, Emily Whitmore and her husband, James, sent their children off to stay with her parents in the countryside just outside of London. They visited every weekend—sometimes Emily went alone. The village was only a few miles away, so if James was working, she could catch the bus straight after her Friday shift.

She might not have gone every weekend, but she missed the children terribly, and with her father recovering from a stroke, her mother needed help in the garden. This Friday, she packed her things straight after work.

"Jamie, I’m heading straight to the countryside. There’s food in the fridge—help yourself. And come fetch me on Sunday, won’t you? Odd that you’re working Saturday…"

"We’ve got a massive backlog," James muttered. "The boss promised overtime pay."

Emily worked as a senior accountant in the city. That Friday, she rushed through her report—so hastily that she made a glaring error and sent it off to regional management without noticing.

On Saturday afternoon, her manager, Mr. Thompson, called.

"Emily, what on earth happened with this report? Head office is furious—fix it now, or you’ll lose your bonus."

"I’m in the countryside, Mr. Thompson. Maybe tomorrow? What could I possibly have—" He cut her off.

"I don’t care where you are. Sort it. Now." His voice was so sharp her mother overheard from the next room.

"Who was that shouting?"

"My manager. I must’ve messed up the numbers. I’ll have to go back to the office."

She hugged her thirteen-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter goodbye. "See you next weekend, loves."

Back in London, she headed straight to work, disarmed the alarm, and opened the report. After scanning it carefully, she spotted two obvious mistakes.

"How did I miss these? Anyone would see them straight away." She sighed. "Too much rushing—I was late for the bus."

By evening, she’d resent the report, locked up, and started home.

"James should be back soon," she mused, walking slowly. "Strange—he never used to work weekends. Lately, he’s glued to his phone, distracted, irritable. We should talk—without the kids."

Approaching their flat, she fished for her keys. The kitchen light was on.

"He’s home already?"

Climbing the stairs, her pulse quickened. At their door, she heard slow, romantic music—the kind James always groaned at when she played it. Strange. She eased the door open and saw unfamiliar sandals in the hallway. She knew them—but whose?

Quietly setting her bag down, she peeked into the dim living room. No one. The music played softly. Then, through the balcony curtains, she saw two figures smoking.

"Charlotte," realization burned through her. "Those are her sandals." Her stomach twisted—Charlotte was her best friend.

She crept closer, just as Charlotte spoke.

"Jamie, when are you going to tell Emily about us?"

James sounded annoyed. "Char, not this again. I said I’d decide when I’m ready."

Through the sheer curtain, she saw him in his boxers, Charlotte in his shirt.

"And when will that be?" Emily snapped, yanking the curtain aside.

James dropped his cigarette. Charlotte yelped—it must’ve singed her foot.

"What are you doing here?" Charlotte shrieked. "You weren’t supposed to come back till tomorrow!" She stormed inside. "Maybe it’s good you saw us. Jamie, now’s your chance—tell her!"

Emily stood frozen, heart hammering, but refused to cry.

"Em, you could’ve called," James muttered.

"Since when do I need permission to come home?"

Charlotte glared, shameless. James finally snapped, "Get dressed. Leave."

With a huff, she slammed the door behind her.

James exhaled. "Em, it’s not serious—just boredom. I’d never leave the family."

"You think we still *have* a family?"

"Don’t start. Men do this sometimes. And honestly, look at you—when was the last time you dressed up? Got your hair done? We used to travel. Now it’s just bills and your dad."

"And whose salary got cut? Now I see why—you’re funding *her*." Emily’s voice shook. "You disgust me."

Dizzy, she grabbed her bag and fled. Rain soaked her as she ran blindly, tears mixing with downpour.

The office was her only refuge. She disarmed the alarm, draped her wet clothes over the radiator, and wrapped herself in a spare robe. Tea and biscuits steadied her.

She woke to Mr. Thompson shaking her.

"Emily, have you lost your mind? Why are you here?"

Her story spilled out between sobs.

His stern face softened. "Come home with me. My wife will help."

Margaret, his wife—who’d once forgiven his own affair—welcomed her warmly. Over breakfast, she asked, "Will you take him back?"

"No."

Margaret sighed. "It won’t be that simple. You’ve got children. I stayed—and it worked."

Emily said nothing.

By noon, she was back in…
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23/08/2025

So much depends on fate.

Sometimes people make their own lives unbearable, but in time they realise they need to forgive, understand, and love. Then everything falls into place, and life gets easier. Emily was an only child—no brothers or sisters. There were times she longed for someone to talk to.

But when she married Oliver and found out they were expecting twins, she was over the moon.

"My children will never feel alone—they’ll always have each other," she’d think, and the idea warmed her heart.

Soon, they learned they were having daughters. Oliver had secretly hoped for a son, but that thought vanished the moment Lily and Sophie were born. Both were beautiful, identical in every way. Oliver was baffled how Emily could tell them apart by tiny details he couldn’t see. For him, it was torture.

"Emily, I just fed one of them—I have no idea which!" he’d groan. Laughing, she’d guide him to the hungry twin.

"How do you even tell them apart? It’s impossible! I keep mixing them up—who’s Lily, who’s Sophie?"

But one thing never changed—his love for them. As the girls grew, Emily, exhausted from round-the-clock care, counted the hours until Oliver came home to give her a break. She dreamed of rest, of a moment to breathe.

"I can’t take this anymore," she snapped at him one evening. "I can’t turn my back for a second—they’re into everything! Can’t you take some time off?"

"Love, you know I can’t—work’s mad right now. I’m the only one providing for us. I know you’re tired, but I help when I can."

And he did—taking the girls out after work or playing with them indoors if the weather was bad. But one day, he came home to their loud crying. He rushed in—only to find Emily passed out on the sofa, drunk.

He soothed the girls, fed them, and waited until bedtime to confront her.

"Emily, what were you thinking? The girls were screaming—you didn’t even hear them!"

"You don’t get it. I’m human—I needed to unwind. Try being stuck with them all day, running from the cooker to the nappies and back. I only had a little wine—didn’t think I’d pass out."

"I believe you, but this isn’t the answer. What if something had happened to them?"

He wanted to trust her, but it kept happening—more often, he’d find her drunk, the girls neglected. Emily demanded escape, refusing to listen.

By the time the twins turned four, Oliver filed for divorce, hoping to keep them from their mother. But the judge ruled otherwise—one daughter to each parent.

The girls sobbed as they were torn apart. Oliver took Sophie to live with his parents in another town, while Emily kept Lily.

Emily poisoned Lily against him. "Thank your father—he’s the one who tore you from your sister."

Oliver found work, raised Sophie with his parents’ help, and though life was stable, his heart ached for Lily. Sophie thrived—grandparents’ love was everything she needed.

But Lily’s life was bleak. Emily drank heavily, her flat full of strangers. Some treated Lily horribly—shoving her, shouting. She’d escape to a park bench, watching enviously as happy families strolled by.

At nine, she begged Emily: "Mum, I want to live with Dad and Sophie."

Emily, half-drunk, snapped: "Oh, now you remember him? He left us for another woman! Bought Sophie dolls, promised her the world—and she fell for it. Bet she regrets it now."

Lily pictured Sophie miserable, trapped with a cruel woman. She hated Oliver after that.

Years passed. Sophie, now eighteen, was at uni, living with Oliver and stepmum Charlotte—who doted on her like her own. Their business thrived; they’d built a countryside home.

Lily, at seventeen, drifted between older men, pregnant by eighteen. The father paid for an abortion, then left. When Emily fell seriously ill, Lily, who’d dropped out of school, finally asked for Oliver’s address.

On the train, she clutched the slip of paper, heart pounding. She wanted to see Sophie—her mirror image. Resentment festered—why had Oliver taken Sophie and left her?

The grand house stunned her. Flowers, a pristine garden. Sophie answered the door—stylish, radiant.

"Lily! It’s really you!" She pulled her inside.

Lily forced a smile, but inside, bitterness clawed.

"Mum’s in hospital—we need money," she said flatly.

They cried—Sophie…
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23/08/2025

**Diary Entry – 15th March**

Natalie turned fifteen when her parents dropped the news—another sibling was on the way. She stomped her feet, shrieking.

"Mum, why do we need another kid? Decided to have a late-in-life baby, did you? Am I not enough?" She seethed, already picturing a rival stealing her parents’ attention—and their money.

Till then, Mum and Dad had indulged her every whim. Now, suddenly, it was all cots, prams, and baby baths. Prams? Baby baths? She needed new boots!

Natalie wasn’t pretty—broad-faced, heavy-set—but she reckoned fine clothes might mask it. She dressed to hide flaws, badgering her parents for more. They always gave in. Now a sister would ruin everything.

Little Lily arrived—blue-eyed, golden-curled, already toddling toward Natalie, who swatted her away.

"Mum, take your Lily. She’s in my way."

Years passed. Lily bloomed into a beauty; Natalie stayed plain, unmarried. After school, she became a postwoman in their village while Lily, at nineteen, fell for Anthony, a trainee visiting from the city. He vanished after getting her pregnant.

"Keep it," Mum said. "We’ll manage."

Lily had a son, Lucas. Natalie sneered.

"You’ve always been daft, Lily. Love? Doesn’t exist. Look at me—I never fell for that rubbish. Now you’re stuck with that—" She jabbed a thumb at the baby. "No one to blame but yourself."

She needled Lily daily—quietly, so their parents wouldn’t hear—even suggesting she should’ve left Lucas at the hospital. Lily wept but stayed.

Then Natalie announced she was leaving for London.

"Had enough of you lot. I’ll live alone."

No skills, but she was sick of Lucas and Lily hogging attention. Past thirty, she hoped to snag a man—any man—in the city.

She found construction work—hard labour, but it paid. Greedy for cash, she took side jobs, hoarded every penny. Asked about her family, she scoffed:

"They wronged me. Let them rot. I won’t lift a finger for them."

"Natalie, you’re heartless," friends said.

She didn’t care.

Men came and went. She demanded, "What’ll you give me if I love you?" They fled. One, George, snapped, "You don’t even know what love *is*."

"Should I study the K**a Sutra for you?" she shot back.

Another, John, warned, "Your parents might leave the house to Lily."

That struck a nerve. She visited home—casually, like no years had passed.

"Thought about the house?" she asked.

Dad saw through her. "Bit early to bury us, isn’t it?"

She played innocent but started visiting more—bringing Lucas toys, books.

Colleagues suggested, "Bring Lily and the boy to London. You’ll get a council flat."

She did, manipulating her way up the housing list. Lily cooked, cleaned, endured Natalie’s jabs in private while Natalie played the saint publicly.

Then fate smiled on Lily. At a clinic, she met Oliver, a divorced doctor. He proposed—properly, after courting. Soon, Lily and Lucas moved in with him.

Natalie, alone and bitter, demanded payment for "her kindness." Oliver threw her out but later handed her …
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23/08/2025

**Who Else to Trust but Your Own Mother?**

Amelia remembers her happy childhood, though at twenty-five, she’s already seen her share of joy, hardship, and betrayal.

When young, dashing Lieutenant William, fresh out of military academy, proposed to his girlfriend Laura, she could hardly believe it. They’d been together for over two years while he studied, meeting only occasionally—cadets rarely got leave.

"Laurie, let’s get the paperwork done straight away," William said, thrilled to have graduated, earned his rank, and soon, to be a married man. "We’ll tie the knot, I’ll settle at my new posting, and you’ll join me later."

"I’d love to," Laura replied eagerly. She’d long wanted to escape her drunken, quarrelsome father, and her mother wasn’t much of a loss either.

Laura’s mother made excuses for her husband when he was sober, waited on him hand and foot, then watched as it all fell apart again. No one paid much attention to Laura—just as long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother had to fight for every penny of his wages before he drank them away.

Laura had seen little kindness in her life.

"When I have a daughter," she used to dream, "I’ll love her properly. No shouting matches—I’d never marry a man like my father. I’ll find someone decent."

Laura joined William in a remote Yorkshire village where he was stationed. The place was small, but they had a one-bedroom flat straight away. He’d managed to furnish it partly with military-issued items and bought the rest himself.

"Will, I’m so happy—just the two of us now, and I’m the lady of the house!" Laura beamed, while he hugged her, content.

A year and a half later, their daughter Amelia was born. From then on, Laura was mostly on her own—William was always drilling or on duty, rarely home in time to bathe their baby. He missed her terribly, leaving and returning while she slept.

Years passed. Amelia grew, and William was transferred—first to a small market town, then elsewhere, so Amelia attended different schools as they moved around the country. Then one evening, her father came home and announced,

"Right, we’re off to London—my new posting. We’ll likely stay there for good."

"About time," Laura said. "I’m sick of bouncing between bases. Other families stay put."

"Laurie, you married a military man—you knew the deal. What’s the problem? We’ve a flat, a car, money."

But Laura, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s temperament. Over time, she paid Amelia less attention, and the girl grew closer to her father. They understood each other perfectly. Laura didn’t seem to care.

They were given a three-bedroom flat in central London—a far cry from their old cramped quarters. The balcony on the tenth floor was Amelia’s favourite, with its stunning view.

She attended a good school. William served, Laura worked. Amelia often overheard her mother berating her father, who stayed silent while Laura picked fights over nothing. Amelia pitied him—he’d retreat to the balcony, sit in his chair with the paper, waiting for Laura to vent. She wouldn’t dare make a scene out there—she cared too much about gossip.

Two years later, they divorced. Amelia stayed with her mother; William moved across the city, leaving them the flat.

"Millie, visit me on weekends or holidays—here’s the address," he said, handing her a precious slip of paper. She tucked it away, hiding it from Laura.

Amelia visited her father often—they strolled in parks, watched films, ate ice cream. Laura’s bitterness towards William spilled onto her daughter. By secondary school, Amelia learned to stand up to her. They coexisted in icy silence, like strangers.

When it came to university, Amelia chose one far from home—anywhere to get away. She thrived in student halls, relieved to be free of her mother.

"I’ll visit Dad on breaks, see Mum if I must," she thought.

But returning home for the holidays brought disappointment. Laura was living with Ian, a man just seven years older than Amelia. For the first time, Amelia saw a drunk in their home—William only ever drank lightly on special occasions. Ian was perpetually tipsy. She couldn’t tell if he even worked—he’d disappear sometimes but always returned so**ed.

"Mum, how can you stand Ian like this?" Amelia finally asked. "He’s always drunk, and he shouts."

"None of your business. Ian’s had a hard life. Don’t like it? Go to your father’s—no one’s keeping you here."

Amelia left the next morning—after Ian had barged into her room the night before, only stopped by Laura’s return. She packed a bag and fled to her father’s, then back to uni two days later. She couldn’t fathom why Laura excused Ian, enduring his rages—even his shoves.

"That flat’s dead to me while Ian’s there," she decided.

And so it was. In her fourth year, after exams, Amelia visited her father—now living with Anna, a warm woman who treated her like family. Then, right outside his building, a car struck her. She woke in hospital with a broken leg.

William visited when he could; Anna came alone when he was away. Reluctantly, Amelia called Laura.

"Mum, hi—I’m in hospital."

Laura promised to come. She did—with a solicitor in tow.

"Love, this is about paperwork. Your father didn’t bother, but I won’t leave you without a roof. This flat’ll be yours when I’m gone—my word on it."

Amelia signed, trusting her mother. After graduation, she stayed in London, working hard, saving for a flat of her own.

One day, she rang Laura.

"Mum, how are you? Everything alright?"

"Getting by. Split with Ian—had enough of his drinking."

"Finally!" Amelia said, relieved.

"Changed things, actually. Sold the flat, bought a two-bedder. You’ll visit, and it’ll be yours one day."

The sale went through—details unknown. Amelia rang Tanya, an old neighbour.

"Millie, didn’t you know? Your mum pulled a fast one. You signed those papers—Ian owns your flat now…
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22/08/2025

**Diary Entry – 16th November**

I never thought I’d write these words, but here I am—shaken to my core. Today, my mother-in-law, Eleanor Whitmore, confessed something so monstrous it’s shattered everything I thought I knew.

She lay there in the hospital bed, frail and pale, her voice barely audible. “Emily, dear… I must speak plainly. My time is short. You deserve the truth, even if you’ll despise me for it.”

I froze. “Emily, *dear*”? Those words felt foreign. For years, since marrying her son, she’d called me “that barren waste,” “useless wife,” or worse. Never an endearment. And now—gentleness, tears, trembling words. Was death truly humbling her? Had regret finally caught up with her?

I’d been working as a nurse at St. Bartholomew’s when Eleanor was admitted after a severe heart attack. The doctors whispered she wouldn’t last the week. My ex-husband, James, hadn’t visited—probably couldn’t be bothered. Not that I cared. After he walked out, leaving me broken, I’d sworn never to utter his name again.

It all started with my pregnancy. I dreamed of a child, but James was cold, dismissive. “We can’t afford it,” he’d grumble. “It’ll ruin my career.” His mother? She’d sneer, insisting I’d “trapped him.” When the time came, the doctors performed an emergency C-section—though there’d been no medical need. I tried calling Eleanor; she’d been head of maternity. Maybe she could intervene. But she never answered.

Afterwards, they told me—flatly, cruelly—“The baby died in utero.” My daughter—the one I’d already named Lily—was gone. That day, I stopped believing in fairness, in love.

The marriage crumbled. James blamed *me*—my “weak health,” my “failure as a mother.” Eleanor backed him, twisting the knife. The divorce papers listed me as the guilty party. I was left alone, hollow.

And now, here she was—abandoned in her final hours by the son she’d sacrificed everything for.

“Don’t say that, Eleanor! You’ll pull through,” I insisted, but she weakly waved me off.

“No… It’s over. But you—you’re a good woman. I was wrong not to stand by you.” Her breath hitched. “Emily… that C-section wasn’t routine.”

My heart stopped. I’d always suspected—but to hear it now—

“Your baby… she didn’t die. She was *taken*. Given to a wealthy family.”

The room spun. My legs gave way. I gripped the bed rail, staring at the woman who’d stolen my child.

“*Why?*” The word tore from me, raw.

“James didn’t want children. You knew that. He was starting his career—terrified you’d ‘drag him down.’ He made me arrange it. I thought I was helping him. But now…” Her voice broke. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“How *could* you?!” My tears were scalding. “Where is she? Where’s my daughter?”

“The drawer… a notebook… the address—” she gasped. “But Emily, he’s powerful now. He won’t let her go.”

“We’ll see,” I hissed, snatching the notebook.

“Emily… forgive me—”

“God might,” I spat, storming out.

I couldn’t breathe. Five and a half years—my Lily was out there, alive! The address led to a mansion in Kensington. A man answered—tall, polished, ice in his gaze. Behind him, a child’s laugh rang out.

“Here about the nanny position?” he asked.

“Nanny?” My eyes darted past him.

“No? Then why—”

“Robert?” I whispered. He stiffened. “I’m here for my daughter.”

His face paled. “I’m not giving you Charlotte.”

*Charlotte.* The name *I’d* chosen.

Over tea, he confessed: his wife had been infertile. They’d adopted a baby girl—mine. His wife had passed three years ago. “Charlotte asks when Mummy’s coming home from heaven,” he murmured. “Not *you*.”

My heart cracked. But I made a choice.

“Hire me as her nanny.”

Two days later, I signed his contract—DNA tests, therapy sessions, swearing I’d never reveal the truth. I didn’t care. I …
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22/08/2025

My Share Went to Another

Lydia Preston stood by the window, watching the young woman next door hang laundry on the washing line. A stranger in the house that should have been hers. The house where she’d grown up, where her youth had passed, where her mother had died.

“Lyd, what are you staring at?” called her younger sister, Nina, as she walked into the kitchen with shopping bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”

“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, stepping away from the window. “Watching her act like she owns the place.”

“Stop torturing yourself,” Nina said, unpacking the groceries. “What’s done is done.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, while I’m living off you.”

“Don’t be daft. You’re no burden, and you know it.”

Lydia sat at the table and picked up her lukewarm cup. The tea was bitter, unsweetened—they were saving sugar. Ever since losing the house, money had been tight. A small pension wasn’t much to live on, even for two.

“Nin, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” she asked, stirring her tea.

“Of course. She said the house would be split between us.”

“Exactly. Split. But instead, it’s all gone to Valerie’s girl.”

Nina sank heavily into a chair. The subject of the will still stung for both sisters.

“Lyd, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. Mum wasn’t herself in those last years. The doctors said it was Alzheimer’s.”

“But she didn’t write the will alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses. How could they let a sick woman sign everything over to a stranger?”

“Diane’s not a stranger. She looked after Mum’s niece when she was ill.”

“Looked after her!” Lydia scoffed. “Spent a few months giving her pills. And what about us? Thirty years of caring for Mum meant nothing?”

Nina stayed quiet. Both sisters knew it wasn’t fair, but there was nothing they could do. They’d lost the court case, and the house had gone to Diane—a distant cousin who’d only appeared in their lives in recent years.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

“I’ll get it,” Nina said.

Voices murmured in the hall before their niece, Emily—their late brother’s daughter—walked into the kitchen.

“Hello, Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Getting by,” Lydia replied. “And you? How’s work?”

“Not bad. Planning a holiday to the coast. Actually, I wanted to ask—do you need any money? I could help a bit.”

Nina and Lydia exchanged glances. Emily had always been kind, but this offer touched them deeply.

“Thanks, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”

“Well, if you change your mind, just say. But I’ve got some news. Remember Diane, the one who got Gran’s house?”

Lydia stiffened.

“Of course we remember. What about her?”

“She’s selling it! Saw the advert online yesterday. Asking for four hundred grand.”

“What?!” Lydia shot up from her seat. “Selling it?!”

“Yeah. Says the place is old, needs expensive repairs, and she wants a flat in the city.”

“No,” Nina whispered. “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”

“What family?” Lydia gave a bitter laugh. “Some distant relative gets everything and does as she pleases.”

Emily shifted awkwardly.

“Aunt Lydia, maybe you could talk to her? She might sell it to you for less.”

“With what money?” Lydia threw up her hands. “My pension’s a thousand a month, Nina’s twelve hundred. Where would we get four hundred grand?”

“Couldn’t you take out a loan?”

“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”

Emily sighed.

“Such a shame. It was a lovely house.”

“Was,” Lydia echoed.

After Emily left, the sisters sat in silence. The setting sun cast golden light across the kitchen.

“You know what?” Lydia said suddenly. “I’m going to see her. Diane.”

“Why?” Nina frowned.

“To talk. Maybe she’ll grow a conscience.”

“Lyd, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”

“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”

The next morning, Lydia put on her best dress and walked to her childhood home. It wasn’t far—just two streets over—but every step felt heavy.

The house looked neglected. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, and weeds choked the garden. Lydia winced, remembering how tidy it had been when her mother was alive.

She knocked. Diane answered—a woman in her forties, heavyset, with a sour expression.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”

“Good morning, Diane. Could we talk?”

“About what?”

“Please, let me in. It’s awkward standing here.”

Reluctantly, Diane stepped aside. The hall smelled musty, with dirty dishes stacked in corners. Lydia’s heart ached at the sight of the once-familiar walls, now grimy and peeling.

“Kitchen’s this way,” Diane muttered.

The kitchen was a mess. Dishes piled up, pots crusted on the stove, windows patched with tape.

“Sit,” Diane said, nodding at a chair. “Make it quick—I’ve got things to do.”

Lydia sat gingerly.

“Diane, I heard you’re selling the house.”

“So?”

“This was our family home. Nina and I grew up here. Our parents lived here. It means a lot to us.”

“And?”

“Would you consider selling it to us? I know money’s tight, but we could arrange payments—”

Diane laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound.

“Payments! From two broke pensioners? Are you serious?”

“Please, Diane, don’t be cruel. We’ll agree to anything.”

“Anything?” Diane sneered. “Where were you when your mum was ill? Who took her to the doctors? Who paid for her medicine?”

“We helped when we could—”

“Helped!” Diane mocked. “Popping in once a month with a bag of shopping—that’s help? Who fed her every day? Who washed her sheets? Who stayed up nights when she was restless?”

Lydia looked down. There was truth in Diane’s words. In those last years, their mother had needed constant care, and the sisters had their own struggles—jobs, families, their own health.

“I know you did so much for Mum,” Lydia said quietly. “We’re grateful. But the house—”

“The house was left to me legally!” Diane cut in. “Your mum was sound of mind when she made the will. The solicitor checked, the doctors confirmed it. Now that you’ve lost out, you come begging?”

“We’re not begging. We’re asking—”

“You’re demanding! Acting like you’re owed something! Where were you when it mattered?”

Diane stood, pacing the kitchen, arms flailing.

“Know what, Lydia? I’ll sell to the highest bidder. You’d better start looking for another place to live. Save your tears for my funeral.”

Lydia rose.

“Sorry to trouble you.”

“Don’t trouble me again. I’ve got enough problems.”

Outside, Lydia paused by …
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

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