Emma
The house felt heavier after ten days of packing. Boxes stacked up in the corners, Mum directing us all with sharp commands, Dad trying to keep everything organised. Every time I glanced at the pile of packed belongings, my chest tightened. Hull wasn't just a town away; it was a hundred miles away, a whole new life, and it was coming for us whether I wanted it or not.
Still, I stole away to the woods, needing the comfort of the clearing. Tommy would be there there, blanket spread, picnic waiting. For a few moments each day, I allowed myself to forget Hull, to forget the boxes, the move, and the looming uncertainty. In that suspended bubble of our own making, the world beyond the trees ceased to exist.
Tommy
The morning started with tension in the house, as usual. Father was on the phone, his voice clipped and harsh, his words cutting through the air like a knife. Mother stalked the halls with her arms folded, her sharp eyes scanning every room as if she might find a mess to scold us for or a fault to correct. Even the walls seemed to absorb the unease, holding their breath until the storm passed.
Then, just before lunch, she knocked on the door with a decisive bang — then she was there. Aunt Stephanie.
She stood tall in the doorway, framed by the pale light behind her, a woman impossible to ignore. Her chin was lifted, her tailored jacket buttoned as if she'd marched straight from a battlefield, her arms folded across her chest in a way that made her presence feel like an unspoken challenge. Her eyes blazed with controlled fury, but there was something else too — determination, purpose.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Mother gasped, her hand flying to the string of pearls around her neck as if to steady herself. Father froze mid-step, his jaw tightening, his shoulders stiffening like a soldier bracing for impact. Jack and Alex, caught between curiosity and fear, hovered on the stairs, their eyes darting between our parents and our aunt. And me? My heart soared in silence. I had never seen my parents look so genuinely shocked, so unprepared.
Aunt Stephanie didn't waste her breath on greetings. She didn't have to. Her presence alone was a declaration of war.
"I heard about your plans," she said, her voice even but edged with steel. "And I think we need to talk."
Father opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a single, sharp glance. It was astonishing, watching the man who could reduce entire rooms to silence with a raised eyebrow suddenly bite back his words like a chastened child. Mother stammered, her lips moving but no sound coming out, as though her carefully rehearsed lines had all been ripped from the script.
The air in the house changed. It was charged now, humming, alive with the electricity of confrontation. I could feel it in the floorboards beneath my feet, in the stillness of my brothers on the stairs.
My gaze flicked toward the window, catching a glimpse of the lake in the distance, the trees that hid the clearing, the place where Emma and I had carved our initials into bark. For the first time in weeks, I felt it — hope. Fragile, but real.
Aunt Stephanie strode into the sitting room like it was her own, planting herself firmly in the centre. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each sound precise, deliberate. My parents followed, stiff and wary, like predators uncertain if they had just met their match.
"Your plans to clear the woods," she began, her tone deceptively calm, "need a serious rethink."
Father's face darkened, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He hated being challenged, especially here, in his own home. "Stephanie," he started, his voice heavy with warning, "this is —"
"Don't interrupt," she cut in, raising one hand like a judge silencing a courtroom. "I know exactly what you've been plotting. The council meetings, the permits, the quiet strings you've been pulling. You're not as discreet as you think."
Mother gave a strangled sound of indignation, her face flushed red. "How dare you march in here and —"
"I dare," Aunt Stephanie snapped, turning her gaze on her, "because the people you're about to bulldoze out of their homes deserve someone in their corner. Someone with the means to fight back."
The room fell still again. Father's breath came sharp and shallow, his fury barely contained, but he said nothing. Mother, red-faced and trembling, seemed to shrink back against the sofa, her pearls twisting around her fingers like prayer beads.
I could barely contain my smile. Aunt Stephanie wasn't just standing up to them — she was dismantling them, brick by brick.
"You think money is all that matters," she continued, her voice rising just enough to carry weight. "But there are laws. There are protections. And there is public opinion. I've already spoken to people who can block this entire scheme. If you go ahead, you'll find yourselves fighting on more fronts than you can handle. And I promise you, you will lose."
Mother finally found her voice, shrill and furious. "This is outrageous! You —"
"Outrageous," Aunt Stephanie cut across her, her expression cool and razor-sharp, "is trying to displace families for the sake of luxury houses no one here even wants. That is what's outrageous."
Father's nostrils flared, his fists trembling, but still he said nothing. And in that silence, I knew the tide had shifted.
For the first time, someone was standing up for Emma's family. For the woods. For us.
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. My chest swelled with a mix of pride and relief, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. For weeks, I had felt powerless, trapped between my parents' ambition and the looming loss of Emma. But now? Now, hope had a voice.
And her name was Aunt Stephanie.