Determined
Ever since she was little, Emily dreamed of becoming a doctor. She lived with her parents in a small village and ran three kilometres to school in the nearest town. There, you’d find the school, the clinic, the post office, and even three shops.
The school was large and modern, and Emily loved studying—everything came easily to her. She was finishing Year Five.
“Emily, get up! What are you still lying around for?” her mum called loudly as she walked in, carrying a bucket of fresh milk from milking the cow. “You’ll be late for school—I woke you up when I went to the barn!”
“Oh, Mum, you’re right!” Emily jumped up, washed, dressed, and grabbed her schoolbag, rushing out without breakfast. Her mum, Claire, just managed to wrap up a couple of pancakes and shove them into her hand.
Running three kilometres was no joke. She sprinted past telegraph poles, alone—all the other kids had already gone. Tired, she slowed to a walk, then ran again.
“I’m going to be late. Definitely.”
She burst into school just as the bell rang, dashed up to the second floor, and slid into her seat.
“Emily, what’s up with you? Like someone was chasing you,” whispered Lily, her desk mate. “Did you oversleep? That’s not like you.”
“Yeah, overslept.”
The day went on as usual. After lessons, she walked home with the other girls, laughing and chatting as the boys caught up, joking and shoving playfully.
She unlocked the door—they kept the key under the porch—kicked off her shoes, and hurried inside. Usually, no one was home this early—her dad worked shifts, and her mum delivered post. Just as she turned toward her room, she heard a harsh cough from the little spare room. She froze.
“Who’s that?” she wondered. “A ghost? Mum once told stories, but I laughed—ghosts don’t exist.”
Swallowing her fear, she changed, listening closely. When she finally stepped out, the coughing started again—this time unmistakably a man.
“Dad’s at work. Who could it be?”
The room was curtained off, impossible to see from afar. Nervously, she ate something and bolted outside, hoping to spot her mum on her rounds. No luck. She sat on the bench.
Tom, the neighbour’s boy, walked past.
“Tom!” she called. “Come here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s someone coughing in our house. I don’t know who. Mum and Dad aren’t home. Can you come check?”
“Okay.”
Inside, all was quiet. She pointed at the curtain. Tom pulled it aside—and there, on the bed, lay a terribly thin man.
“Hello. Who are you?” she asked from behind Tom.
“Hello,” he rasped. “I’m George—your uncle.”
Emily didn’t recognise him. They quickly retreated outside.
“See? Just your uncle,” Tom said. “I’m off—Mum’s waiting.”
When her mum arrived, Emily asked about him.
“That’s George, my younger brother. He was in prison—just got out, sick as a dog. You were too small to remember.”
He’d arrived barely alive, and her dad had said, “Let him stay. Maybe he’ll recover.” But her mum wasn’t hopeful.
George had been a troublemaker. At sixteen, he and his mates broke into the village shop, stealing sweets, biscuits, cigarettes, and wine. They were caught—three years in a youth facility, then adult prison. Now, at twenty-five, he was half-dead.
Emily couldn’t sleep, listening to his coughing. She remembered old Margaret in the village, known for healing with herbs.
“After school, I’ll go to her,” she decided.
The next day, she knocked on Margaret’s door.
“Please, help my uncle. He’s really sick—might die.”
Margaret sat her down with tea and cakes, then listened carefully. Soon, she handed Emily bags of herbs and notes on how to brew them.
“Thank you!”
At home, she showed her mum.
“Mum, look! I’ll make the tea myself.”
Claire just nodded, sceptical. Every morning, Emily brewed the herbs, left them by George’s bed, and told him when to drink.
“You’re relentless, Em,” he’d say, touched by her faith in him.
She checked in with Margaret, who praised her efforts.
“Good girl. Soon he’ll sit, then walk. Make him go barefoot—earth gives strength.”
Emily was determined. And slowly, George improved—sitting up, standing, then walking with a stick. By summer, they strolled to the river, where he even bathed.
“Feels good, Em,” he said, grinning.
By winter, he was shovelling snow, tending the cows.
“George, rest!” her dad scolded.
“Nah. I’ll pull my weight.”
He got a job at the local sawmill. One day, Emily marched in, scowling at the mess.
“It’s filthy in here! And stop smoking—bad for my uncle!”
The men laughed—until they returned to a spotless room, fresh curtains hung.
“Blimey,” one muttered.
George chuckled. “She’s a force of nature.”
Later, he fell for Marie, a widow with a child. Emily approved.
“She’s lovely, Uncle George. Go for it.”
He hugged her. “This is all thanks to you.”
They married, had more children. Emily became a doctor, married, worked in a city hospital. But she still visits—her parents, and George, who never forgot the girl who refused to give up.
