It was just fate, I suppose.
Emily was hurrying home. The melted snow had patches of stubborn ice left, making her slip and struggle to keep her footing. Puddles of dirty water lined the road, and speeding cars splashed unsuspecting pedestrians. She kept her distance from the edge of the pavement.
By the time she reached the house, her back was damp with sweat, her feet ached, and her boots were soaked through. She really needed a new pair.
In the hallway, Emily sank onto the little footstool, exhausted. She pulled off her boots and wriggled her toes inside her damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would’ve been perfect—anything to stop from catching a chill. Before she could even prop her boots by the radiator, there was a knock on the wall. That was her mum’s way of calling her—rapping a spoon against the plaster. Emily sighed and went to her mother’s room.
“What is it, Mum?” Her mother mumbled something incoherent in reply.
“I was at work.” Emily stepped closer, straightening the blanket that had slipped off. A stale whiff of urine hit her. “Nappy’s full,” she realised. She grabbed a fresh one from the pack beside the bed, peeled the covers back, and held her breath against the stench as she changed her. The whole time, her mum just kept on mumbling—by now, she couldn’t speak.
“All done. I’ll make dinner and feed you in a bit.” Emily bundled the heavy, soiled nappy and left without another glance, tuning out the muffled noises. She’d taught herself not to grumble or take it to heart—it wouldn’t help, wouldn’t change a thing. Sitting down for five minutes would’ve been heavenly, but Mum would just knock again, needing her.
Once, they’d been a normal family. Her dad had been a university professor, her mum a housewife who adored him. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything fell apart. Emily had just finished Year 11, her brother James had passed his third-year uni exams, and then—Dad died.
Some desperate parent had tried bribing him to get her son a place on a funded course. Dad chaired the admissions board, strict about fairness—never took advantage. Furious, the woman retaliated, accusing him of taking money anyway. An investigation started. The stress was too much. He had a heart attack on the way to hospital.
Mum couldn’t cope. She spiralled—barely noticed Emily or James, just sat staring blankly for hours before scrambling into the kitchen to cook, still waiting for Dad to come home.
Before, a carer called Sophie used to come twice a week—cleaning, shopping. Mum refused supermarket meat or veg, insisted on market fresh. After Dad’s death, they had to let Sophie go. Nobody worked but him. Emily took over, and Mum began treating her like hired help. Explaining she was her daughter did no good—Mum just called her Sophie and barked orders.
Savings ran out fast, not that there had been much. Mum never skimped—always buying herself dresses, jewellery. She’d been beautiful, and Dad spoiled her.
Back then, his uni colleagues visited often. Even now, Mum made Emily lay out fancy spreads, dressing up as if hosting. Then she’d forget and scold her for cooking too much. School was Emily’s only escape—until she had to drop out.
James was the one who said she should work. If *he* quit uni, he’d be drafted—what good would that do? But if he graduated, he could help support them. At the time, it made sense. So Emily left school.
She’d trained at a music academy, showed real promise. The nursery manager hired her—enough skill to lead sing-alongs, and the pay was lousy anyway. The upside? She could pop home during the kids’ nap time to check on Mum. That almost made up for the tiny wage, most of which went on rent and Mum’s meds.
After uni, James moved to London. His promises to help? Forgotten. When she begged for money to hire a carer, he said he was struggling too—rent, new city. No spare cash.
They’d never been close. James got all the looks—thick dark hair, striking brown eyes, tall. Mum had been over forty when Emily was born, nearly didn’t keep her. She arrived sickly—every draft gave her a fever, a runny nose. Grew up scrawny and plain, like Dad—grey eyes, mousy hair, thin lips. None of Mum’s beauty.
Mum *pitied* her. Sometimes, Emily wondered—would she have even kept the pregnancy if she’d known? But James? Adored. Proudly.
Only Dad ever praised her, stroked her hair after piano practice. She’d play for hours just to hear it. Then he died, and Mum forgot she had a daughter.
James rarely visited. Early on, once he’d left, Emily checked Mum’s jewellery box—hoping to pawn something small to scrape by. Half of it was gone. She knew instantly. *James.* But Mum blamed *her*, screamed, threatened to call the police.
She rang James. He played dumb, hung up. To Mum, she lied—said *she* sold some to pay bills. Mum ranted but didn’t call the cops. Emily knew—she’d never believe golden James would steal.
One winter, Mum bundled into her fur coat, put on what jewellery was left, and went shopping. New Year’s gifts for *Dad and James*. It was dark when Emily got home. She scoured the streets, finally finding her half-frozen in the park. Mugged—coat, jewellery gone, left for dead. She survived, barely. After that? Bedridden. Lost speech, memory, control.
Time passed. Mum got worse. Emily tended to her. Then James turned up, wrinkling his nose at the smell.
“God, it reeks in here. Don’t you *clean*?”
That was it. She snapped.
“Take her, then! Your wife can look after her properly. Let her finally *meet* her mother-in-law.” By then, James had a family—a son.
He ducked into Mum’s room but bolted back out. She didn’t recognise him.
“It’s *unbearable* in there. We need to fix this. Why not a care home? Proper help, and you get a life.”
“Are you *serious*? She’s our *mother*! She worshipped you, and you’d dump her in some *home*?”
“She’s a vegetable. You’ll lose your mind like this. You should be married, have kids, not stuck in this stink. Look at you—when did you last get your hair done? You’re a *musician*, and your hands—like a labourer’s. And your *clothes*—”
“How many times did I beg you for carer money? Instead, you *stole* her jewellery. Back for the rest? Tough—it’s *gone*. Take whatever’s left and *leave*.”
She’d never spoken back before. James didn’t argue—just soothed her. That *terrified* her. He wanted something.
Sure enough, he started hinting—cramped flat, growing family, another baby coming…
Her stomach dropped.
“You want the *flat*?”
“We’re buying bigger. Sell this one—I’ll get you a smaller place, keep the rest. It’s only fair—I’m entitled to half.”
“And *Mum*? Where does she go?”
“She’ll die soon. Care home’s kinder. Fight me, and I’ll sue.”
“You *wouldn’t*.”
“Watch me.”
She didn’t sleep. James had kids, a *life*. She was alone in a “palace”—if you counted a dying mother. Would a court care? She already heard his arguments.
In the morning, she agreed—on one condition. The new place needed a big kitchen. Space for a sofa bed.
“Of *course*, sis.” *Sis.* He’d *never* called her that. “Pack up—I’ll sort everything.”
She believed him. He raved about the new flat—great area, *huge* kitchen…
She should’ve seen it first. But she was *tired*.
The movers came.
Stepping inside, her heart sank. The “kitchen” was a galley. The “room”—a narrow strip. Traffic roared day and night. Soot choked the air.
“London prices, *duh*. Be grateful it’s not a *bedsit*.” James stormed off.
Now, Emily slept on the kitchen pull-out. Top floor—boiling summers, freezing winters. She considered a home for Mum but doubted they’d take her.
Three months later, Mum died. Sadness, yes—but relief, too. James didn’t come to the funeral. “Wife just had the baby—can’t leave her.” No money, either. Emily borrowed from coworkers, buried her alone. No wake. Just her at the grave.
She junkedEventually, Emily adopted the orphaned boy from her nursery, married the headteacher’s brother, and gave birth to a daughter—finally building the loving family she’d always dreamed of, while James was left to fade away in a state-run care home.
