**Diary Entry**
“Son, you’ll have the house. Just, I beg you, look after your poorly sister. Don’t abandon her,” my mother whispered, each word a struggle. The illness had taken nearly everything from her. She lay in bed, frail as parchment, nothing like the strong, kind woman who’d raised me.
“Listen to me, John…” she breathed. “Don’t turn your back on Emily. She’s different, but she’s ours. Promise me—” Her grip on my hand surprised me. Where did she find the strength?
I glanced at Emily, my older sister, sitting cross-legged in the corner of our cramped Manchester flat. Forty years old and still clutching that doll, humming nonsense. Smiling, as though oblivious to our mother fading before her.
I had a good life—my own construction firm, a Range Rover, a riverside house in Leeds. But there was no place for Emily there. My kids were frightened of her odd ways. My wife, Claire, called her “not right in the head,” though Emily never so much as raised her voice.
“I’ve got my own family, Mum. Emily’s… well…” I tried to pull away.
“Your father’s house is yours,” she rasped. “But I’ve left Emily a three-bed flat. It’s all settled.”
“Where’d the money come from?” Claire and I exchanged glances.
“I cared for an old schoolteacher—brought her meals, medicines. Poor dear left it to me. I signed it to Emily so she’d always have a roof. But you—you watch over her. It’ll go to your children one day, God knows how long she’ll…”
We said our goodbyes that night. By morning, she was gone.
Emily didn’t understand. I took her in and began refurbishing the flat.
“Why does Emily need all that space?” I said to Claire. “Let her stay here. We’ll rent it out.”
For a while, it worked. Emily played with her dolls, harmless as a lamb. But Claire grew uneasy. “What if she turns nasty?”
“Give it time,” I said. Yet within months, I’d used a mate’s solicitor to transfer both the house and flat into my name. Emily signed whatever papers I slid her way.
Then the real torment began.
When I was at work, Claire locked Emily in her room, called her names, even put out cat food instead of meals. Once, she slapped her—Emily wet herself in fear.
“Bloody incontinent loon! Out of my house!” Claire shoved her onto the pavement, her belongings in bin liners.
“Where’s Em?” I asked that evening.
“Ran off!” Claire snapped. “Pissed herself like a toddler and stormed out. Good riddance.”
I flicked on the telly. “Found tenants for the flat, anyway.”
Couldn’t sleep that night. Where was she? She had the mind of a child. By dawn, I drifted off—only to dream of Mum in her coffin, shaking her finger. “I begged you, John…”
The dream haunted me weekly. Two months later, I rang Mum’s old friend, Auntie Margaret.
“Conscience biting, Johnny?” she spat. “Found Emily at your mum’s grave. God knows how she got there. She’s with me now—unlike you, I don’t want her flat. Pray your mind stays sharp till the end.”
I hung up. At least she was safe.
Emily died eight weeks later—same illness as Mum. I missed the funeral. “Work crisis.”
Ten years on, I’m the one bedridden. Claire’s moved her new bloke into the next room. The kids visit grudgingly, wrinkling their noses. “You stink, Dad.”
One day, Claire barged in with papers. “Sign these. Business matters.”
Scrawled my name—only to realise too late: it was the house, the firm. Gone.
Now, in the dark, I whisper, “Forgive me…” But the silence doesn’t answer.
**Lesson:** A man reaps what he sows. Neglect your blood, and life will return the favour tenfold.
