**Diary Entry – A Heavy Burden**
“Son, the house will be yours. But promise me—look after your sister. Don’t abandon her,” my mother whispered.
“Listen to me, son…” Her voice was barely a breath.
Each word cost her dearly. The illness had hollowed her out, leaving her frail, almost translucent. It hurt to see her like this—once so strong, so full of life, now reduced to this shadow.
“Please, John… don’t turn away from Emily. She’s not like others, but she’s ours. Promise me…” Her grip tightened unexpectedly around my wrist. Where did she find such strength?
I winced. My eyes flicked toward my older sister, Emily, sitting in the corner of our cramped flat in Manchester. She was past forty but still clutched her doll, humming softly to herself, smiling as though the world held nothing but joy—even now, as our mother lay dying.
I had built a good life—a thriving construction business, a luxury SUV, a spacious house by the Thames. But there was no room for Emily in it. My children were unnerved by her odd ways, and my wife, Margaret, called her “mad.” Yet Emily was harmless—quiet, never troubling anyone.
“Well… you know… I’ve got my family… and Emily’s… she’s…” I mumbled, trying to pull my hand free.
“Son, your father’s house goes to you. But I’ve arranged a three-bed flat for Emily. It’s all settled.”
“Where did the money come from?” Margaret and I exchanged shocked glances, our faces brightening despite ourselves.
“I cared for an elderly schoolteacher—brought her meals, her medicine. She was kind. I never imagined she’d leave me her flat. I put it in Emily’s name, so she’d always have a place. But you… you must watch over her, John. The flat will go to your children one day. Who knows how long she has…”
We said our goodbyes. She died that night.
Emily didn’t seem to grasp she was alone. I took her in at once and began renovating the flat.
“Why does Emily need such a big place? Let her stay here for now. We’ll rent the flat out,” I told Margaret eagerly.
At first, she didn’t object. Emily was no trouble—spending hours playing with her dolls or sorting through old things in the wardrobe, always smiling. But her strangeness unsettled them. “She’s harmless today, but what about tomorrow?” Margaret hissed.
“Just bear with it,” I pleaded. Yet within months, with a solicitor’s help, I transferred both the house and Emily’s flat into my name. I coaxed her into signing papers she didn’t understand.
From then on, her life became hell.
While I was at work, Margaret tormented her—mocking her, locking her in her room, refusing to let her outside even in summer. Sometimes, instead of food, she’d leave a bowl of cat food, screaming until Emily wept. One day, Margaret slapped her. Emily, terrified, wet herself.
“You’re not just mad—you’re incontinent too?! Get out of my house!” Margaret shrieked. She stuffed Emily’s things into a bin bag and threw her out.
“Where’s Em? I haven’t seen her,” I asked that evening, climbing into bed.
“Gone!” Margaret snapped. “She wet herself right in the middle of the room! Then she locked herself away. When I finally got in, she grabbed a bag and ran. Like I’d chase after her!”
I froze. Then, quietly, “Well… if she’s gone…” I turned on the telly. “Found tenants for the flat, by the way.”
I barely slept that night. Where was she? She was like a child, helpless. At dawn, I dozed off—only to dream of Mother.
“I begged you, son…” she said from her coffin, shaking a finger.
The dream returned weekly, draining me. After two months, I rang my godmother, Agnes, hoping she’d know where Emily was.
“What, John? Conscience gnawing at you?” she said coldly. “Thank God I went round. Found her there—frightened, wretched. Don’t know how she made it. She’s with me now. I don’t want her flat. Live with your guilt. Pray your mind stays sharp till the end.”
“Auntie, enough,” I muttered, hanging up. A weight lifted—she was safe. Life could go on.
Emily died two months later—the same illness that took Mother. I didn’t attend the funeral. “Too busy at the firm.”
Ten years on, I’m bedridden now. The pain in my body is nothing to the one in my soul. Margaret’s moved her new man into the next room. My grown children visit rarely, wrinkling their noses: “You smell, Dad.” Like Mother, like Emily, I’m fading.
Yesterday, Margaret brought papers.
“Sign these. Business to sort.”
I did. Too late, I realised—they were deeds. The house. The firm. Gone.
Mother and Emily flashed before me. Tears came.
“Forgive me…” I whispered to the empty air.
*Lesson learned too late: greed ruins everything—even a man’s soul.*
