In the Crowded Nest
“Emily, don’t make a fuss—just squeeze in a little. She’s your own sister,” her mother’s voice was steel, leaving no room for argument.
“Mum, what do you mean, ‘squeeze in’? This is our flat—Anton and I live here! Where exactly are we supposed to fit her?” Emily barely held back her fury.
“And what, she should rot in that grimy student hall? We can’t afford rent—have you seen the prices? It’s settled: Sophie’s staying with you. I’ll sleep better knowing she’s looked after.”
“Mum, we never agreed to this!”
“Now we have. Family helps family.”
“Family? Seriously? Maybe you should remember how—”
“Enough. No time. I’ll book her train—I’ll text you.”
The call ended. Emily stood in the kitchen, gripping her phone as if it had answers. She was winded by her mother’s audacity. Then again—why was she surprised?
Emily had always been the unloved child. When her mother remarried and had Sophie, six-year-old Emily was forced to grow up overnight.
“You’re the big sister—you help now,” her mother insisted. And so Emily vacuumed, mopped, changed nappies, ran errands, entertained Sophie, then later—learned to cook. The stepfather vanished soon after Sophie’s birth, leaving the three of them behind.
Her mother adored Sophie, spoiled her rotten. The sweetest chocolate? Sophie’s. New clothes? Sophie’s. Cafés and cinema trips? Only what Sophie wanted. The girl grew up coddled, never lifting a finger at home.
Sophie left messes, never cleaned, only demanded:
“Claire’s parents got her the new iPhone—I want one too!”
“What’s for dinner? Leftovers again? Let’s just order pizza!”
“Where are my jeans? Emily, you didn’t wash them? I have to? Ugh, I don’t know how—why should I?”
“Clean? Not now, I’ve got a headache. You do it.”
Her mother never argued. When Emily tried, she was met with:
“Sophie grew up without a father—it’s hard for her.”
“So did I!”
“You’re strong—Sophie’s delicate, like a flower. She needs more care.”
Her mother spent her wages—took loans—for Sophie’s whims. When Emily needed trainers or a coat, her mother snapped: “Find a sale. Or buy second-hand.” She never asked about school, never asked about Emily’s life.
Fed up, Emily swore to escape. She studied relentlessly, took odd jobs—handing out flyers, courier work, writing gigs. The pay was poor, but every pound went into a tin hidden on the top shelf.
One evening, after hours handing out leaflets in icy wind, she opened the tin—and froze. Empty.
“Sophie! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Sophie crunched crisps.
“My savings!”
“Oh, that? Yeah. I needed it. New trainers, clothes, pizza delivery. Mum didn’t leave me cash.”
“You—that was mine! What gives you the right?”
“Chill. It was pennies. You’d begrudge your own sister?”
Emily locked herself in her room and sobbed.
Later, her mother stormed in:
“How dare you scold Sophie over money? She took it—so what?”
“She blew it on rubbish! I’ve got nothing left!”
“Selfish! We’re family!”
“And what about me?”
“Stop whining—go wash up.”
Emily aced her exams, got into uni, moved into halls. Life finally eased—she studied, worked part-time, saw friends.
Her mother only called for demands: “Sophie’s birthday—don’t forget!” Emily sent cash. That was that.
By third year, she landed a bookkeeping job. Her mother suddenly cared—hinting at handouts. Emily sent scraps, but saving for a mortgage came first.
She and Anton married, bought a cramped one-bed flat. His parents came; her mother refused:
“A registry office? No dress? That’s not a wedding. Plus, train fares—too dear.”
“But it’s my day. You always said—family.”
“Can’t. I’m taking Sophie to spa—no funds.”
Years later, her mother declared Sophie would live with them while at uni. No asking—just telling.
Anton reluctantly agreed—temporary, she’d find her own place.
Sophie arrived sneering:
“What a dump! Couldn’t afford central? How am I supposed to commute?”
“Hello,” Emily deadpanned. “Wash up—dinner’s on.”
“God, this flat’s tiny. Like a cage.”
“Feel free to rent a penthouse.”
“Give me the cash, then. You know Mum’s broke.”
“You’ll sleep there.” Emily gestured at the airbed. “Closet space—there.”
“The floor? Charming.”
“You were warned.”
With Sophie there, Emily relived childhood. The mess, the laziness, the entitlement. No chores, no rent—just demands.
One morning, Anton frowned:
“Em—did you take the money? The cash I got paid?”
“What money?”
“Gone. Nearly three grand—three months’ mortgage.”
The tin. The missing money. Emily *knew*.
She stormed into Sophie’s room.
“You stole it!”
“Huh? What?” Sophie yawned.
“The cash—where is it?”
“Oh, that? Spent it. Money’s for spending.”
“ON WHAT?!”
“New phone. Mine was ancient.”
“That was ours! Who said you could—”
“Borrowed it. Mum says family shares.”
Emily shook. They’d default now. She rang her mother—who just sighed:
“So she took it. Young people want nice things. Be glad you could help.”
Emily hung up—never to speak to her again.
That evening, she dumped Sophie’s bags in the hall.
“Get out. And don’t call me again.”
Sophie wailed—nowhere to go. Emily *slammed* the door so hard the walls shook.
Then—she laughed. A weight lifted. Free at last.
Maisie
Maisie was a wild thing—untamed, scruffy, chaos on legs. Her mother tried to rein her in, often failing.
All girls are girls—but *this* one…
Each morning, her mother plaited Maisie’s hair tight, ribbons woven in, fox-like mischief glinting in her eyes. Starched dress, pressed pinafore, lace-trimmed socks. Collar pristine—after two attempts under supervision. Polished shoes. A perfect picture.
By dusk, she’d return a disaster: socks bunched, cuffs stained, knees stuck with burrs, forehead—same, just in case. Ribbons frayed from her braid, now a rat’s nest. Hair—a bird’s nest *decorated* with thistles.
Pinafore greased—she’d smuggled a meat pie for reading time. Not her fault if lunch smelled *so good* during literature!
Miss Abbott, young and sharp-nosed, sniffed it out, confiscated the pie, *binned it*. Maisie wailed:
“Wasting food?! You *taught* us better!”
The class erupted. Memories were fresh—just last week, Miss Abbott had read *The Warm Loaf*, and *everyone* cried (especially Tommy Briggs, who loved horses). Now *he* howled too.
The teacher flushed, stammered excuses—useless. Lesson ruined. Authority *shattered*.
She lied—”I’ll feed it to birds later”—but who bought that? Maisie’s book got a *fat* note: *Disrupted class with PIE!!!* And a one (out of ten)—parental wrath guaranteed.
Post-scolding, post-scrubbing stains, post-“time-out” in the bath, Maisie vowed: *Never argue*. Not worth it. But submit? Ha! She’d do things *her* way. Adults lied—simple as.
That pie set her path—stubborn, independent.
Maisie’s dad? A mystery.
“A hero,” her mother claimed.
“In the war?” Maisie’s eyes shone.
“Well… not *exactly*,” her mother hedged.
“Crashed his plane,” Nan cut in. “Went down in flames.”
Nan knew the *real* dive he took. But why hurt the girl, so like him? Let her think him heroic. A *lover*, more like—rot the man.
When Emily—Maisie’s mum—was seven months along, he’d fancied another: leggy, sharp-boned, stork-like. A *ballerina*, of all things! Strutted like she owned the world.
Emily? All warmth, curves, laughter. A woman you’d hug just *because*. A century back, merchants would’Now Maisie, like her mother before her, swore she’d never let anyone clip her wings—no matter who called it love.
