I am Emily, not Tilly
Emily was glowing with happiness—she had passed all her exams! Not with top marks, but well enough to make her mum and dad proud. As she pushed open the front door, she heard her mother’s familiar voice and… another, unfamiliar one, hollow as if from another time. The girl slipped quietly into her room, not wanting to interrupt. But then she caught the words:
“I’m telling you, Margaret, for the last time…” her mother snapped.
A thud in the hallway—her father had come home for lunch. Emily peeked out and locked eyes with a woman in a frayed white shawl. Her features felt painfully familiar. Where had she seen her before? A shadow of memory pricked sharply, unwelcome. That woman with the sticky, penetrating gaze. The one who had once called her “Tilly.”
“Hello, Tilly. Hello, my girl,” the uninvited visitor said.
“Go on, Margaret,” her father muttered stiffly.
“I’m going, I’m going… See you soon, little sister,” the woman tossed back before leaving.
Emily stood stunned.
“Dad, who was that?”
“Just one of your mum’s acquaintances.”
“But she called her ‘sister’.”
“Girls sometimes say things like that… I suppose.”
Yet the uneasy look in her mother’s eyes and the heavy silence in the house told a different story. It was clear—this was no mere acquaintance. She was part of a secret.
Days later, Emily saw Margaret again.
“Well, hello, Tilly,” the woman said, stepping too close.
“I’m not Tilly. I’m Emily.”
“Do you remember me?”
“I don’t… You used to visit Mum.”
“Visit Mum? I *am* your mum, Tilly… Your real one…”
Margaret seized her hands, speaking feverishly, desperately. And without quite knowing why, Emily followed her.
“Come in, my girl,” the woman led her to a dingy little flat. “You lived here, until you were two… Do you remember?”
A wave of memories crashed over Emily: filthy floors, half-smoked stubs, someone shouting, kicking the door, and tiny her—just a baby—scrambling for scraps. Someone forcing grubby fingers into her mouth… And her biting down—hard. Fear. Tears. Cold. Tilly… that’s what they called her then.
A rough voice yanked her back.
“Margaret, out gallivanting again? Bring any money?”
A drunk man swayed in, eyes glazed.
“Who’s this, then? A present for me?” He reached for Emily.
She dug into her bag and thrust out a wad of notes.
“Here! Just don’t come back. Not to us, not to Mum, not to Dad. I remember everything now. And you’re nothing to me.”
“Tilly—”
“My name is Emily!”
She ran home, choking on tears. By the time she got there, she was shaking, her fever spiking. Her mother found her weeping.
“Mum, I went to her… I remembered… the grease… the dirty hands… I bit them…”
“Oh, my girl—” Her mum cradled her like a child.
Then she told her the truth. About how two sisters, Margaret and Helen, had grown up in an orphanage. They were adopted together. Margaret was sweet at first—then she changed. Started smoking, stealing, ran off, and came back pregnant. The father was unknown. Their parents forgave her. Helen, then still at university, agreed to help… and took the baby as her own. Tilly became Emily. Margaret lost her rights—but still demanded money to stay away.
From then on, Emily was theirs—in love, and on paper.
Margaret sometimes came back. Crying. Begging forgiveness.
“Tilly, my girl—”
“I’m Emily. I’m sorry, Aunt Margaret.”
Her mother endured it.
“She’s my blood. Maybe I’m her last thread to a decent life…”
Then one day, Jack turned up—the man with the grubby hands.
“Margaret’s in hospital. It’s bad.”
They went.
“Forgive me, my girl,” a pale, sober Margaret whispered. “Thank you for living. Thank you for being mine… even for a little while.”
“You’ll be alright. Hold on. We’ll get you through this.”
But she didn’t make it.
Later, Emily saw Jack again. He was clean now.
“I quit. Because of her… Sorry, Tilly—”
“I’m Emily.”
“Listen… I’m not your dad, but I know where he is. Want to see?”
He led her to a grave of a handsome man. There, an elderly woman found Emily.
“Are you his daughter?”
“I think so…”
“I’m your grandmother…”
Now, Emily has two graves to visit. And two lives: one she escaped, and one she grew up in.
She visits those who gave her life. She tells them about herself. She promises to live well—and she keeps that promise.
