So, Friday rolls around and I do a Very Grown-Up Thing: I send an email to Dad’s solicitor. Calm. Clear. Pointed. I outline how my concerns about the house, the will, the general circus and how they are being neatly ignored. As they have been for far too long.
Fast forward to tonight.
Guess who makes a surprise appearance? After months and months of radio silence? Fanny McFox.
Yes. That’s Fanny. The one who hadn’t set foot on the property since the day Dad was buried.
She drives in like it’s 1999 and she’s just popping over for tea. No warning, no context, no hello, how are you. Just there, on the scene. For one night only!
And you know what? I can practically hear the pre-game chat with Bully:
‘We need to be seen doing something, Fanny. Quick, show up, look concerned, maybe water a flower pot’.
Because make no mistake: this wasn’t about Dad. It wasn’t about the house. It definitely wasn’t about me. It was a textbook narcissistic reaction, a panic-pivot when the mask starts slipping and someone (me) starts keeping receipts.
They don’t respond with honesty or effort. They respond with optics.
But here’s the real joke:
Fanny McFox popping in now doesn’t undo the fact she’s been MIA.
And Bully’s little side plots? Transparent as cling film.
Lesson of the Day:
If the visit only happens after a complaint, it’s not care, it’s damage control.
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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