The rain hammered against the windowpanes of the old Victorian house on Elm Street, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the turmoil in Clara’s heart. She sat by her father’s bedside, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Arthur Hensley was eighty-seven, his body a frail shell ravaged by years of silence and secrets. The doctor had said it wouldn’t be long now, maybe hours, maybe days. Clara had been there every day for the past month, ever since the call came that he was fading.

She remembered the last time they spoke, really spoke, over twenty years ago. It was the night before her wedding, when she accused him of never loving her mother enough, of choosing his work over family. His face had crumpled, but he said nothing, just turned away. That silence had built a wall between them, brick by unforgiving brick. Now, as death loomed, Clara wondered if forgiveness was still possible, or if regret would be her eternal companion.

The door creaked open, and her brother, Daniel, stepped in, shaking rain from his coat. He was forty-five, like her, but looked older, lines etched deep from a life of restless wandering. ‘Clara,’ he said, voice rough. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘I live here, Daniel. Have for fifteen years. Where else would I be?’

He hung his coat, avoiding her eyes. ‘I’ve been in Seattle. Work. You know how it is.’

She did know. Daniel had left home at eighteen, chasing dreams of music stardom that never materialized. Postcards and Christmas cards were all they exchanged, polite nothings that masked the resentment. Their father had always favored him, the golden boy, while Clara stayed behind, nursing their mother through cancer, then taking care of Arthur when his mind began to slip.

‘The lawyer called,’ Daniel said, sitting heavily in the armchair. ‘Will reading after the funeral.’

Clara’s stomach tightened. Money wasn’t the issue; Arthur had been frugal, but the house and savings would be something. It was the principle. After all her sacrifices, would he finally acknowledge her?

Their father stirred, eyes fluttering open. ‘Danny? That you?’

Daniel leaned forward. ‘Yeah, Dad. I’m here.’

Arthur’s gaze shifted to Clara. ‘Clara… good girl.’ His voice was a rasp.

The words stung, a lifetime of ‘good girl’ that felt like dismissal. She forced a smile. ‘Rest, Dad.’

That night, as Daniel slept on the couch downstairs, Clara couldn’t. She wandered the house, fingers trailing dust-covered shelves. In the attic, she found the old trunk, locked with a rusted padlock she’d never bothered with before. Curiosity won; she pried it open with a crowbar from the garage.

Inside were letters, yellowed and tied with string. Her mother’s handwriting. And photos—Daniel as a boy, but not quite. The eyes were different, the smile. Clara’s heart pounded as she read.

‘Dear Arthur, I can’t keep pretending. The boy isn’t yours. I had an affair. Forgive me.’

Clara’s world tilted. Daniel wasn’t her full brother? But the dates… he was born before their parents married. Had Arthur known?

More letters: Arthur responding, ‘I’ll raise him as my own. Our family stays intact.’

She sat back, stunned. All those years of favoritism—Arthur pouring love into Daniel to prove he could love despite the betrayal. And Clara, the blood daughter, overlooked because she reminded him of the pain?

Downstairs, voices. Daniel on the phone, agitated. ‘Yes, the money’s coming. It’ll fix everything.’ Gambling debts, she realized. He’d always been reckless.

Morning brought worsening rain and Arthur’s decline. Clara confronted Daniel in the kitchen. ‘Did you know? About Mom?’

His face paled. ‘What?’

She thrust a letter at him. ‘Read.’

He scanned it, then laughed bitterly. ‘So what? Dad loved me anyway.’

‘Loved you more than me,’ she spat. ‘I slaved here while you lived free.’

‘You chose that. Pity party.’

The argument escalated, voices rising until Arthur called weakly from upstairs. They rushed to him.

‘Stop… fighting,’ he wheezed. ‘My children…’

Clara knelt. ‘Dad, why? Why him?’

His eyes, cloudy but sharp, fixed on her. ‘Because… you…’

He gasped, hand clutching hers. Then, silence. He was gone.

The funeral was small, just them and a few neighbors. Back home, the lawyer arrived, will in hand. ‘To Daniel, the savings account, $200,000. To Clara, the house.’

Fair, Clara thought numbly. But Daniel smirked. ‘See? Still his favorite.’

Nights later, alone, Clara burned the letters. Regret gnawed—why hadn’t she spoken sooner? Forgiven?

Then, a knock. Daniel, drunk, eyes wild. ‘Give me the house deed. Sell it. I need the money.’

‘No.’

He lunged, grabbing her arm. Struggle ensued, vases shattering. In the chaos, he slipped on the wet floor from the rain, head cracking against the hearth. Still.

Panic. She called 911, but it was too late. Police came, ruled accident.

In the aftermath, cleaning, she found Daniel’s phone. Texts: ‘Dad’s will? Make sure I get it all. Poison in his meds? Do it.’

Her blood ran cold. Daniel had been poisoning their father, switching pills. The favoritism was guilt money, Arthur knowing but silent to protect the family.

And her? The dutiful daughter, unknowingly covering for a killer brother who wasn’t even blood.

She sank to the floor, the truth crashing down. All her resentment toward Daniel, the fights—they were shadows of his darkness. The family bonds hadn’t strained; they’d been severed long ago by secrets. Forgiveness? Impossible now.

The house felt emptier, the rain a dirge for what never was.