Ever since I was little, I dreamed of that house. A small, creaky wooden cottage by a lake in the Lake District—the scent of pine, damp earth, freshly baked biscuits, and those long summer evenings. Every summer, we’d go there: my brother, sister, and I would swim until our lips turned blue, fish with Dad, and in the evenings, listen to the water lapping and the old porch groaning underfoot. To me, that house wasn’t just a holiday home—it was a piece of my soul, part of the family, the one place that truly felt like warmth.
When I turned thirty-five, Mum mentioned almost offhandedly, “Emma, you know that house will be yours one day. I decided ages ago. You love it, you’re always the one looking after it.”
I never asked, never demanded. I just believed her.
A year passed. The house began falling apart—the foundation sagged, the roof leaked, and the windows rattled in the wind. Mum had aged, and she didn’t have the money to fix it. I couldn’t bear to watch my favourite place crumble.
I skipped holidays, passed up a trip abroad, even postponed renovating my own flat. Every spare penny went into that house. I hired builders, spent every weekend there—overseeing, choosing paint colours, helping out. I bought furniture, picked upholstery. I practically breathed new life into the place. And Mum just smiled and said, “Goodness, it’s beautiful again… just like when I was young.”
“I told you it still had life in it,” I’d reply, exhausted but happy.
When it was finally done, we sat together on the refurbished veranda. The sun dipped low, tea going cold in our cups. Then, almost in a whisper, she said, “Emma… I’ve given the house to Sophie.”
“…What?” It took a moment to sink in.
“Well, your sister… She’s struggling. Divorce, the kids, nowhere to live. I thought she needed it more—”
I went numb. Just sat there, silent, like someone had ripped my heart out. That house was everything—meaning, comfort, certainty. I’d believed it would always be mine. I’d poured money into it, yes, but also effort, soul, memories. And Sophie? She never even thought about that place. Never visited. It didn’t mean a thing to her. And Mum didn’t even talk to me first. Just—handed it over.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just stood up and left. For days, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or speak. My chest felt hollow—like breathing took effort. It was as if Mum had torn something alive from me and tossed it aside, as if to say, “You’ll manage, you’re strong.” Except… I wasn’t.
A week later, I finally called her. “Mum… do you regret it? Even a little?”
She hesitated. Then sighed. “I wanted to help you both… but I think I only hurt the one who was always there.”
After that, I visited less. Sophie lives in the house now. We barely speak. The lakeside cottage isn’t home anymore—just a place. Empty. Cold. Like the part of me still trapped there.
Sometimes, betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It comes from the people you love most. Promises between parents and children—they should mean something. Because betrayal from someone close doesn’t heal with time or forgiveness. No words fix it. No explanations make up for it. It just stays with you. Forever.
