**Diary Entry – 18th May**
“Margaret, do you have any idea what she’s done?” Rachel clutched her handkerchief tightly, her eyes red from crying as she glared at her daughter. “The flat! The cottage! Even Mum’s jewellery box—everything left to that… that William Edwards!”
Margaret stood silently in the middle of the room where her grandmother’s beloved chest of drawers had once stood, filled with photographs. Now it was empty, just like the hollowness in her chest.
“Mum, let’s sit down and talk properly,” she said softly, though her voice wavered.
“How can I talk properly?” Rachel snapped, throwing her hands up. “I spent years looking after her—doctors’ appointments, medicines, checking in every single day! And all he did was smile and say, ‘Good morning, Eleanor’!”
Margaret sank into the armchair. She remembered old Will, as they’d called him—a small, neat man in his seventies, always in a clean shirt, kind-eyed. Gran had often mentioned how he’d helped her—fixing a bulb, picking up groceries when her legs gave out.
“Mum, perhaps Gran had her reasons?” Margaret ventured carefully.
Rachel spun around. “You can’t be serious! Did he bewitch her? Bully her? I’ll take this to court—she wasn’t in her right mind!”
“Mum, Gran was sharp as a tack till the end,” Margaret murmured. “Last week she was solving crosswords, gossiping about Mrs. Henderson’s new handbag.”
But Rachel wasn’t listening. She paced, voice rising. “What did he even do? Helped now and then? And I didn’t? I’m her daughter—I have rights!”
A quiet knock at the door made Margaret’s stomach tighten. She already knew who it was.
William stood on the doorstep, holding white chrysanthemums, his face weary. “Afternoon,” he said softly. “Might I come in?”
“Oh, do enlighten us!” Rachel barked, storming into the hall. “How dare you swindle a defenceless old woman?”
William’s lips pressed together, but his eyes held no malice—only sorrow. “Rachel, let’s sit. I understand how you feel.”
“You understand nothing!” she shot back. “You buttered her up, knowing she had family!”
“I knew,” William admitted. “And I never asked Eleanor for anything.”
He stepped inside, placing the flowers on the windowsill. Margaret noticed his hands trembling.
“Would you like to hear how it happened?” he asked.
“Go on,” Rachel said coldly.
William eased into Gran’s favourite chair. “We met four years ago when I moved in. After my wife passed—no children—I downsized. Eleanor was the first to welcome me, brought round a shepherd’s pie. Said, ‘A man on his own needs neighbours.’”
“And you saw a wealthy widow, didn’t you?” Rachel sneered.
“I saw loneliness,” William replied evenly. “Over tea, she spoke of a granddaughter abroad, a daughter too busy to visit. ‘They drop by Sundays, rush off—always something to do,’ she’d say.”
Margaret’s cheeks burned. It was true. Mum visited weekly, tidied, prepped meals, and left. Margaret herself came even less—work, the kids, life…
“We grew close,” William continued. “She loved to talk; my house was too quiet after Lydia died. When she had the flu, I made broth, fetched prescriptions.”
“And for that, she left you everything?” Rachel scoffed.
“She didn’t plan it,” William sighed. “Once, we spoke of the future. She said, ‘Rachel loves me, but she’s got her own life—as she should. You’ve been the son I never had.’”
He paused, staring out the window before turning back. “She worried for you. ‘Rachel’s exhausted—work, grandchildren, then my aches on top. But Will gets it. We’re alike.’”
“Pretty words!” Rachel spat. “You tricked her!”
“Mum,” Margaret cut in. “Let him finish.”
William rubbed his brow. “She suggested the will. I refused—said, ‘You’ve family.’ But she insisted. ‘They’ll manage. You’ve given me what they couldn’t—time.’”
He stood, pacing. “I pleaded—leave something to them. But she was stubborn. ‘You’re here when I need you. That’s priceless.’”
Rachel snorted. “How touching. What now?”
William met her gaze. “That’s why I’m here. I don’t need the flat—I’ve my own. The cottage? No use to me. I’ll sign it all over to you.”
Silence. Margaret stared; Rachel blinked.
“Sign it over?” Rachel finally asked.
“A deed of gift. Keep what you like. I’ll take only a small sum… and her photos.”
“Photos?” Rachel frowned.
“Eleanor asked me to preserve them. Her parents, her brother lost in the war. ‘You know what memory means,’ she’d say.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. Gran had shown her those photos—telling stories she’d half-listened to, always rushing off…
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
William smiled sadly. “Eleanor wanted me happy. But I can’t be, causing family strife. She’d hate that.”
“And the jewellery?” Rachel pressed.
“Take it. Her mother’s ring—she meant it for you, Margaret.”
Margaret covered her face. Gran *had* promised her that ring—a simple gold band with a tiny gem. She’d kept putting it off, thinking there’d be time…
“Then why the will at all?” Rachel muttered.
William touched the chrysanthemums. “She feared I’d be alone after. ‘You’ve no one,’ she’d say. I told her I was used to solitude, but she wouldn’t hear it.”
“But we’re her family!” Rachel cried.
“You were,” William agreed. “Love isn’t just a feeling, Rachel. It’s time. Attention. The small things—fears, joys, sitting through the dull hours.”
Margaret stood, walking to the windowsill. A cracked pot held Gran’s violets—she’d fretted over them daily.
“Will,” Margaret said softly—startling herself with the childhood name. “How were Gran’s last days?”
William’s face softened. “Peaceful. We looked through her albums—she told stories of every face. Then she said, ‘I’m happy. I’ve family, and I’ve you. You’ll all be alright.’”
“Was she ill?” Rachel asked.
“No. Just tired. ‘Life’s been lived,’ she said. Next morning, I brought tea… She’d gone in her sleep.”
He laid keys on the table. “Here’s the flat and cottage. Documents are in the bureau. Tomorrow, we’ll see the solicitor.”
“Wait,” Margaret said. “Where will you live?”
“My place is small, but enough.”
“And the photos?” Rachel asked.
“If you’ll allow it, I’ll keep them. She wanted them safe.”
Rachel stared at the keys, then began weeping quietly. “I loved her. I just… didn’t know how to show it. Always in a hurry—thinking she’d wait. Now…”
Margaret hugged her. “She knew, Mum.”
“How?” Rachel hiccuped. “I treated it like a chore. Tidy, cook, dash off. I should’ve stayed—*listened*—”
“She understood,” William said gently. “‘Rachel’s a good daughter,’ she’d say. ‘But youth doesn’t see that ageing isn’t sickness—just a slower life. She thinks feeding me matters most. But really, it’s being there.’”
Margaret turned to William. “What if we do this differently?”
“How?”
“We’ll take the flat—Mum needs it. But the cottage… Could we sell it, share the proceeds? You deserve comfort too.”
William shook his head. “I’ve my pension. Needs are few.”
“Then let’s keep it,” Margaret offered. “You tend the garden; we’ll visit weekends with the kids. Like family.”
Rachel looked up, startled. “Margaret—?”
“Gran saw you as a son,” Margaret said to William. “That makes you our family now. Doesn’t it?”
William blinked rapidly. “I wouldn’t want to burden—”
“Burden? You’d *help*! Neither of us knows the first thing about gardening.”
Rachel wiped her eyes, studying him. “Would you… agree?”
“If you’re certain,” he said hoarsely.
“Then it’s settled,” Margaret said. “Tomorrow, we’ll transfer the flat to Mum, share the cottage. No courts, no fights.”
William smiled—genuinely, for the first time. “Eleanor would’ve loved this. She always wanted a big family.”
“Then she got her wish,” Margaret said. “Just… not how she imagined.”
They sat in Gran’sOutside, the apple blossoms shed their petals like soft snow, settling gently beside the chrysanthemums and the little violet in its cracked pot, as if Gran herself had whispered, *It’s all right now.*
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