Talk to Him, Emily… Or Her? Or Perhaps Just to Herself
—Emily, please… He’ll get himself killed out there!—Her mother’s voice trembled with tears.
—Mum, what makes you think that?
—You know how he is! He’s still just a boy!—Julia nearly sobbed into the phone.
—He’s twenty-five. Next month. A boy…—Emily bit back a scream and exhaled quietly. —Fine. I’ll call him.
She ended the call and clenched her teeth.
*Arthur, bloody Arthur… Everything’s always about him. And me? I’m just background noise, an extra in someone else’s drama. Emily’s responsible, Emily’s independent, Emily doesn’t cry—so she must not be suffering. Does Mum ever ask how I am, what’s going on with me?*
—It started after Dad died,—Emily told her friend Hannah, swirling a spoon in her tea.
—Grief, stress, heartache,—Hannah nodded.—But it’s been two years…
—Exactly! And yet she’s latched onto him, onto Arthur, like he’s her last lifeline. He’s her whole world now. Like she’s reset herself.
—And you?
—Me?—Emily scoffed.—I’m here, but I don’t count. She’s got this… peculiar bond with him. Fine, I’d let it go if it wasn’t so unhealthy. He’s barely two years younger, yet she treats him like a baby—feeding him, fretting over him, *reading his mind*…
—Maybe he looks like your dad?
—They *all* looked like him—Arthur, Dad’s school photos. Must’ve skipped me, though. Must’ve gotten different DNA.
Emily was twenty-seven. Worked at a law firm, rented a flat in an old building near King’s Cross. Her love life? Stable. After a couple of failed relationships, she’d decided to focus on herself for now.
Arthur was different. Sluggish, absent-minded, allergic to effort. Barely scraped through school, picked a uni course where he wouldn’t have to do maths. Dad was still alive then—had a ‘man-to-man’ talk, and Arthur reluctantly settled on something.
Then Dad died. Suddenly. Brutally. Mum fell apart. Doctors, pills, prayers. Nearly lost her job. And in all that chaos, Arthur became her sole comfort.
Her consolation boy. Even though he hadn’t been a boy in years.
He got a job. Didn’t contribute much, but always made it home for dinner—then straight to his chair, his computer. That was his life. But then something changed. Enter Olivia.
New Year’s Eve. Emily visited her mum. Arthur was glued to his phone, grinning like an idiot, mumbling nonsense. She knew—he was in love. And for once, she was happy for him.
Mum, however, was tense.
—You should *see* him!—Julia whispered when they were alone in the kitchen.—Used to drag himself out of bed at noon, now he’s working like a dog. Weekends, overtime, all for Olivia! All for their ‘future’. Rings, fancy meals, saving up…
—Mum, isn’t this what you wanted? For him to grow up?—Emily stared, bewildered.
—Not like *this*! They’re *everywhere*—hiking, canoeing, God knows what else! What if something happens? What if I’m left alone?
—You can’t keep someone in a bubble,—Emily sighed.—He’s *living*. That’s normal.
Time passed. Emily was in a café, spoon in her soup, when her phone lit up—*Mum*. She exhaled and answered.
—He didn’t come home last night, Emily! Do you understand?! Stayed at hers, *warned* me, but I thought—
—Mum, he’s nearly twenty-five. He’s an adult. This is normal.
—Not to me! I didn’t sleep a wink. *Talk* to him, please. He won’t listen to me. But he’ll listen to *you*.
Emily promised. But wondered—*should I?* Maybe not as his sister. Maybe as one adult to another. Or maybe not at all—let him figure it out.
Then came the *real* madness. Horseback riding.
—He’ll break his neck!—Mum wailed over the phone.—Or his back! Why can’t *she* do it alone?!
Next, camping. Autumn. Tents. Mountains.
—He’ll freeze to death!—Julia shrieked.—His immune system’s terrible! What about bears? Ticks?! Emily, *talk* to him!
—You know what,—Emily complained to Hannah,—I’m not even his sister anymore. I’m a bloody switchboard. Mum says—*tell him*. He says—*tell her*. I’m *stuck* in the middle!
—Maybe he *should* move out,—Hannah mused.
—I told him—just marry her and leave. Far away. Get some *peace*. From *her*.
Then—silence.
No calls. No pleading. Emily even worried. Dialled her mum herself.
—How are things?
—Fine, love. Only… Arthur and Olivia broke up. She… lost interest. Found someone else. He’s heartbroken.
—Right…
—He’s home again. Quiet. Miserable. On his computer… At least he’s not drinking. And he’s *here*. Selfish of me, but… it’s a relief. He’s back, Emily. Just like his father… I still love him, you know. Cry every night.
Three months later, Arthur called.
—Can I bring Natasha round? Want you to meet her.
Emily laughed.—Course.
But inside, she thought—*Here we go again. Mum will lose it. Cry. Call. Panic. And how am I even meant to introduce Sergei?*
They were planning a trip. Hiking. The thought alone made her shudder—*what if Mum finds out?*
*Will she start fretting over me too? What if I fall off a horse? Freeze in a tent? What if I have a child, and she latches onto it instead?*
Emily sat on the edge of her bed and whispered:
—God, why is this so *hard*?
She punched her knee and cried. Because she loved them too much. Her mother. Her brother. And she just wanted them to… stop being so afraid. To love without losing themselves.
Maybe that was the point. Not to talk to *him*. Not to *her*. To *herself*. To give *herself* permission to be happy.
