“Making Room”
“Emma, it won’t hurt you to squeeze in a bit. She’s your sister, after all,” Mum said with steely finality, leaving no room for argument.
“Mum, ‘squeeze in’? This is *our* flat—mine and James’s! Where exactly are we supposed to make space?” Emma barely held back her anger.
“Oh, so she should live in some grubby dorm instead? We can’t afford rent—have you *seen* prices? It’s settled: Lily’s moving in with you. I’ll sleep easier knowing she’s looked after.”
“We never agreed to this!”
“Well, now we have. Family helps family.”
“Family? Really? Remember when—”
“Enough. I’ll book her train tickets and let you know.”
The call ended. Emma stood frozen in the kitchen, gripping her phone like it might offer answers. Mum’s audacity stunned her. Then again, why should it?
Emma had always been the afterthought. When Mum remarried and had Lily, six-year-old Emma was shoved into adulthood. “You’re the big sister—help out,” Mum would say. Vacuuming, mopping, nappies, grocery runs, entertaining Lily, then later, cooking. Stepdad left soon after Lily was born, leaving the three of them.
Mum adored Lily, spoiling her rotten. The best sweets? Lily’s. New clothes? Lily’s. Cafés, cinema trips? Whatever Lily fancied. The girl grew up pampered, never lifting a finger.
Lily left messes everywhere, never cleaned, only demanded:
“Sophie’s parents got her the new iPhone—I want one too!”
“*This* for dinner? Leftovers again? Just order takeaway!”
“Where are my jeans? Emma, you *didn’t* wash them? Why should *I*? I don’t even *know* how!”
“Clean? No, I’ve got a headache. *You* do it.”
Mum never contradicted her. When Emma protested, she’d hear:
“Lily’s grown up without a father—it’s hard for her.”
“*I* didn’t have one either!”
“I know. But you’re strong. Lily’s delicate, like a flower. She needs more care.”
Mum blew her salary—even took loans—for Lily’s whims. When Emma needed trainers or a coat? “Check the sales,” Mum would snap, or “try secondhand.” She never asked about Emma’s studies, her life.
Emma swore she’d escape. She aced exams, studied nights, worked part-time: flyering, tutoring, courier gigs. She stashed every pound in a biscuit tin, hidden on the top shelf.
One evening, exhausted from a four-hour flyer shift in freezing wind, she opened the tin—and choked. Empty.
“Lily! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Lily mumbled through crisps.
“From my tin!”
“Oh, *that*? Yeah. Needed delivery fees for my new gear. And sushi.”
“Are you *mental*? That was *my* savings!”
“Chill. It was barely anything. Can’t spare some for your sister?”
Emma locked herself in her room and sobbed.
Mum’s response that night? “How *dare* you fuss? Family shares!”
“She stole it for *sushi* and clothes!”
“Selfish girl! Be *grateful* you can help!”
Emma aced her A-levels, landed an economics degree in London. Student halls, friends, museum trips, part-time jobs—life eased. Mum and Lily barely called unless they wanted something.
After graduating, Emma landed an accounting job. Suddenly, Mum rang weekly, probing her salary, hinting at “support.” Emma sent bits here and there, but she and James were saving for a mortgage.
They married quietly—just close family. James’s parents came; Mum and Lily refused:
“*This* is a wedding? No dress, just some suit? And train fares cost a *fortune*.”
Two years later, Mum decreed Lily would live with them during uni. No asking—*telling*.
Emma and James reluctantly agreed—temporarily.
Lily arrived sneering.
“*This* neighbourhood? Might as well live in a coal shed. How am I supposed to get to campus?”
“Hello to you too,” Emma said flatly. “Wash up—dinner’s ready.”
Lily sprawled on the inflatable mattress Emma provided. “Charming. No *guest room*?”
“Take it or leave it.”
Lily’s stay was a relapse of childhood: mess, laziness, no contributions. Mum only cared if Lily ate well or was “freezing in that shoebox.”
Then, one morning:
“Emma, did you take the cash from the box? I hadn’t deposited it yet.”
“What cash?”
“Nearly three grand. Three *mortgage payments*.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
She stormed into Lily’s room. “You took the money?”
Lily yawned. “Yeah. Money shouldn’t just *sit* there.”
“*Where is it*?”
“New phone. That brick you gave me was *embarrassing*.”
Emma shook. They’d miss payments now. Mum’s reaction?
“Oh, well. Kids want nice things. You *helped* her—that’s what matters.”
Emma hung up—for good. That night, she dumped Lily’s suitcase in the hall.
“Get out. And don’t call me *ever* again.”
Lily wailed about having nowhere to go. Emma slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.
Then she laughed—light, free. Finally rid of the “family” that never cared.
—
**Molly**
Molly was a whirlwind—messy, loud, and utterly unpredictable. Mum knew it and reined her in tightly, though even that didn’t always work.
Other girls were prim. Molly?
Each morning, Mum wrestled Molly’s wild curls into braids with bright ribbons. Neat dress, ironed pinafore, lace-trimmed socks—picture-perfect.
By afternoon? Socks crumpled, knees grass-stained, hair a nest of burrs. A grease stain bloomed on her pinafore—she’d smuggled a sausage roll into class, nibbling while reading.
Miss Carter, their young teacher, sniffed it out, confiscated it, and binned it. Molly howled:
“You *waste* food? After *Oliver Twist*?”
The class erupted. Last week, Miss Carter had cried reading *Black Beauty*. Now she stuttered, red-faced, as kids chanted, “Hypocrite!”
The headmaster scribbled in Molly’s planner: *”Disrupted class—sausage roll.”* And a big “F” (for Food, not Fail. Probably.).
After Mum’s scolding and scrubbing Molly raw, the girl vowed: *Never argue with adults. But obey? Ha!*
Dad was a “hero,” Mum said.
“In the war?” Molly’s eyes brimmed.
“Not… exactly.”
“Plane crash,” Nan cut in. “Went into a nosedive.”
Nan knew the *real* nosedive—some busty barmaid in Brighton. But why scar Molly? Let her think him gallant.
Mum—soft, rosy, the kind men once wrote sonnets for—had been ditched for a stick-thin dancer with legs like a stork’s.
Modern tastes, Nan scoffed. *Give me a woman with hips you can hold onto.*
—
(Note: Currency converted to GBP, names/locations anglicised, idioms/local references adjusted (e.g., “sausage roll” for котлета, “Oliver Twist” for Russian lit parallels). Sentence structures varied while preserving tone and length.)
