Fifteen-year-old Emily was furious when her parents announced they were expecting another child. She stomped her feet and shouted, “Mum, why do we need another kid? Are you and Dad trying to start over in your old age? Am I not enough?” She seethed at the thought of sharing their attention—and their money—with a sibling.
Until now, Mum and Dad had indulged her every whim. Suddenly, all they talked about was cots, prams, and baby baths. What about *her* new boots? Emily wasn’t pretty—heavy-set, with coarse features—but she believed fancy clothes would make up for it. She dressed to hide her flaws and squeezed every penny from her parents. A little sister would ruin everything.
When baby Lily arrived, Emily barely glanced at her. Lily was angelic—blue-eyed, with golden curls—already toddling after her big sister. But Emily just waved her off. “Mum, take her away. She’s in my way.”
Years passed. Lily grew into a beauty, while Emily remained plain, unmarried, stuck delivering post in their village. At nineteen, Lily fell for Anthony, a trainee visiting the village. He vanished after getting her pregnant.
“Keep the baby,” their mother said. “We’ll help raise him.”
Lily named her son Oliver. Emily sneered, “You’ve always been soft in the head, Lily. Love? There’s no such thing. Look at me—I never fell for that rubbish. And now you’re stuck with *that*.” She scoffed at the baby.
Emily spared no cruelty, whispering to Lily when their parents weren’t around: “You should’ve left him at the hospital.” Lily wept but stayed silent.
Fed up, Emily packed her bags at thirty. “I’m done with all of you. I’ll make my own life.” With no skills, she moved to Manchester, working construction—hauling buckets, learning plastering. She scrapped for extra cash, forgot her family, and snarled when asked about them: “They wronged me. Let them suffer.”
Friends muttered, “Emily, you’ve got a heart like a stale biscuit.” But she didn’t care.
Men avoided her. She demanded, “What can you give me?” until they fled. One, Jake, sighed, “You don’t know the first thing about love.”
“Should I study the Kama Sutra for you?” she snapped.
He shook his head. “You’ll never get it.”
Another suitor, Tom, planted a seed: “Your parents might leave the house to Lily. She’s there—you’re not.”
Greed stirred. Emily visited, pretending nothing had happened. “So, what’s the plan with the house?” she asked casually.
Her dad saw right through her. “Bit early to bury us, isn’t it?”
She played innocent, but he warned, “Lily and Oliver won’t go without.”
Emily started visiting often, bringing Oliver toys. Co-workers suggested, “Bring Lily to the city. They’ll give you a council flat.”
She convinced her family, then badgered her boss until she got the flat. At first, she bossed Lily around, but soon realised her sister’s gratitude made her pliable. In private, she berated them; in public, she played the saint. “I’ve sacrificed so much for them,” she’d sigh. Neighbours admired her.
Lily endured, dreaming of escape. Then, at the clinic, she met Dr. Oliver—handsome, divorced. On her last visit, he stunned her: “Lily, will you marry me?”
They moved in together, Oliver adopting the boy. Emily, left alone, turned up demanding payment for her “kindness.” Dr. Oliver threw her out but later handed her cash with a warning: “Stay away.”
Ten years passed. Lily and Oliver had a daughter, moved into a big house. Emily had a stroke. Lily took her in, nursed her, bought special mattresses, tended her wounds.
One day, Emily glimpsed herself—a twisted, frail old woman—and wept. Shame consumed her. “They could’ve dumped me in a home,” she thought. “I would have.”
Now she limps with a cane, mumbling apologies. At Easter, they visited their parents’ grave. Too late for regrets—but better late than never.
