**Diary Entry**
Fifteen years old—that’s when Emily found out her parents were expecting another child. She stomped her feet, screamed.
“Mum, why do we need another kid? Decided to have one in your old age? Am I not enough?” she fumed, already seeing a rival, someone who’d steal her parents’ attention—and their money.
Until then, Mum and Dad had indulged her every whim. Now, suddenly, it was all about cots, prams, baby baths. Who cared about that when Emily needed new boots?
She wasn’t pretty—broad-shouldered, sharp-featured—but she was convinced nice clothes would fix that. Dressed up, tugged at her parents’ pockets. And they always gave in. Now a sister would ruin everything.
Little Sophie was born—a doll-like thing with blue eyes and curly blonde hair. She toddled after Emily, who shooed her away.
“Mum, take your Sophie. She’s in my way.”
Years passed. Sophie grew into a beauty. Emily stayed plain, unmarried. After school, she became a postwoman, delivering mail in their village.
Then, at nineteen, Sophie fell for a bloke named Thomas, here on work placement. He vanished when she got pregnant.
“Keep it,” Mum said. “We’ll help.”
Sophie had a son, Jack. Emily sneered.
“Always been soft in the head, you. Love? Doesn’t exist. Look at me—never fell for it. But you? Head full of fairy tales. Now you’re stuck.”
She spared no pity, berating Sophie in private.
“Why keep him? Should’ve left him at the hospital.”
Sophie cried but stayed silent. She wanted to leave—but where? No money, no husband.
Then Emily announced she was moving to London.
“Had enough of you lot. I’ll live alone.”
No skills, just resentment. But London meant men—maybe an older one with money.
She found construction work, hauling cement, learning plastering. Grew shrewd, greedy. Forgot her family. If asked, she’d snap:
“They wronged me. Let them rot. I won’t lift a finger for them.”
Friends muttered, “Emily, you’ve a heart like stale bread.”
She didn’t care. Blamed her parents for her lot.
No luck with men, though. Too blunt. “What’ll you give me if I love you?” sent them running.
One, James, said, “You don’t know what love is.”
She scoffed. “What, should I study the Kama Sutra for you?”
Another, William, hinted: “Your parents might leave the house to Sophie.”
That got her thinking. Next weekend, she visited.
“Hello. How’s things?”
Mum sighed. “Why’d you never send your address?”
Casually, Emily asked, “So… about the house?”
Dad pulled her aside. “Bit early to bury us, love.”
She played innocent, but he was firm: “Sophie and Jack won’t go without.”
After that, she visited often—bringing Jack toys, books. Colleagues advised: “Bring Sophie to town. You’ll get a council flat.”
She did. Played the saint in public—”I took her in!”—but at home, Sophie was “simple,” Jack “weird,” though he aced school. Sophie cooked, cleaned, endured.
Then fate smiled. At the clinic, Dr. Oliver—divorced, kind—fell for Sophie. Proposed within weeks.
“Marry me.”
They moved in, adopted Jack.
Emily, alone, grew bitter. Turned up demanding rent for the years they’d lived with her.
Oliver paid—once. “Stay away.”
Ten years passed. Sophie and Oliver had a daughter, moved to a big house. Emily’s parents died; the house was split.
Then—stroke. Hospitalised. Sophie took her in. Nursed her, bought special mattresses, spared no expense.
One day, Emily saw herself in the mirror—a wrinkled, crooked-mouthed woman—and wept.
“They could’ve dumped me in a home. I would have.”
She cried at night, ashamed. Maybe her stale heart was softening.
Now she lives with them, walks with a stick. At Easter, they visited their parents’ graves. Emily regrets it all.
Too late? Perhaps. But better late than never.
**Lesson:** Bitterness leaves you hollow. Kindness, even undeserved, is the only thing that fills the cracks.
