Fate’s Design
Emily hurried home, stepping carefully over patches of ice hidden beneath the slush. The roads were slick, puddles splashing up as cars sped past, soaking careless pedestrians. She kept close to the buildings, avoiding the curb. By the time she reached her flat, her back was damp with sweat, her legs ached, and her boots—long overdue for replacement—had let in water.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the footstool, peeling off her wet boots and wiggling her toes inside damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would ward off a cold, she thought. But before she could set her boots by the radiator, a rhythmic knock sounded through the wall—her mother’s way of summoning her. Emily sighed and went to her.
“What is it, Mum?” Her mother mumbled in response.
“I was at work.” Emily adjusted the blanket slipping off the bed, the sharp scent of urine hitting her. The diaper needed changing. Fighting back nausea, she replaced it while her mother muttered unintelligibly. Speech had left her years ago.
“There. I’ll make dinner soon.” Emily tied off the soiled diaper and left, ignoring the sounds behind her. She’d trained herself not to resent it. Complaining changed nothing—only made her feel worse. A moment’s rest would’ve been a luxury, but her mother knocked incessantly, demanding attention.
Once, they’d been a proper family. Her father, a professor at Cambridge, while her mother kept house. But everything crumbled the year Emily finished her A-levels and her brother, Edward, completed his third year at university. Their father died suddenly of a heart attack on his way to hospital.
A disgruntled parent whose son had failed the entrance exams had accused him of taking a bribe. Though innocent, the investigation broke him. Their mother never recovered. She faded into grief, staring blankly, cooking meals their father would never eat. Eventually, she no longer recognized Emily—only called her “Natalie,” the name of their former cleaner.
Savings vanished quickly; their mother had never been frugal, indulging in clothes and jewellery while their father provided. Now, the money was gone. Emily left school to work, while Edward promised support once he graduated. But London life swallowed his good intentions.
Their mother deteriorated further—once, she wandered out in her fur coat and rings, convinced her husband was alive. She was robbed and left for dead in Hyde Park. After that, she became bedridden, incontinent, and mute.
Edward visited once, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. “You’re not looking after her properly.”
“Take her, then,” Emily snapped. “Let your wife care for her.”
He scoffed. “She needs a care home. You’re wasting your life here.”
“She’s our mother!”
“She’s a shell. Look at yourself—when was the last time you had a haircut? You’re a musician, but your hands are rough as a labourer’s.”
Later, he returned with a proposal: sell their parents’ flat. He’d buy her a smaller one and keep the rest. Desperate, she agreed—only to find the new place cramped, noisy, and stifling. She endured it until her mother passed. Edward didn’t attend the funeral.
A colleague later invited Emily to Cornwall for respite. There, she met a widow in a wheelchair and her quiet son, Michael. They grew close, but when asked to stay, Emily hesitated. The life they offered—market stalls, gardening, endless chores—wasn’t hers to claim. She left without goodbye.
Back in London, she found peace in solitude until Edward called. Injured in a crash, his wife gone, he begged for help. Emily refused, recalling every betrayal.
Life surprised her. A child in her nursery lost his parents, and her supervisor suggested fostering—with a marriage of convenience to her brother. What began as pretence became real. A daughter followed.
Edward? He faded into a care home.
Emily had learned to choose herself—and in doing so, found the love she’d always deserved.
