The Wounds of Betrayal
Emma was just finishing the washing up when the phone shattered the quiet of her kitchen in a small town near Manchester. Drying her hands on a tea towel, she picked up.
“Emma, hello, love!” came Aunt Nina’s honeyed voice.
“Good evening,” Emma replied tersely.
“Sweetheart, my son’s moving to Manchester and needs somewhere to stay. Could you put him up?” her aunt cooed.
“No! Sort it out yourselves!” Emma snapped, feeling blood rush to her cheeks.
“But—we’re family,” Nina stammered, confused.
“After what you did, I want nothing to do with you!” Emma bit out.
“What? What did I do?” Panic crept into her aunt’s tone.
“Emma, you wouldn’t say no, would you?” Nina’s voice was sickly sweet, as if she were doing Emma a favour rather than begging for help.
Emma stood by the window, fists clenched. These conversations happened too often. She’d have to drop everything—again—for “family.”
“What is it?” she asked, already dreading the answer.
“Your cousin needs help with maths!” Nina babbled. “Exams are coming, and her teacher’s ruthless. You’re clever—couldn’t you tutor her?”
Emma gritted her teeth. She’d already tutored four relatives’ kids for free. But saying no wasn’t an option—she’d been raised that way.
“Fine,” she exhaled, hating herself for buckling.
In their family, helping relatives was sacrosanct. Emma’s parents had taught her that family was everything, that you never turned your back on your own. They’d sacrificed time, money—whatever was needed. If a cousin needed a job, they’d ask her father. If someone needed cash, they’d “borrow” it, never to be repaid.
“One day, they’ll help us too,” her mother always said.
Emma believed it.
Her parents weren’t wealthy, but they ran a small shop—enough to make them the go-to “sponsors” for the whole family. Relatives stayed over to save on hotels, took “loans” that vanished into thin air. Emma, after uni, became the free tutor for nieces, nephews, distant cousins. She gave up years of evenings, certain that when her family needed help, relatives would step up.
That faith shattered.
“Are you sure?” Emma’s voice shook as her fingers dug into the table.
The doctor looked at her with practised sympathy.
“We’ve checked multiple times,” he said quietly. “Treatment needs to start now.”
Emma nodded, the floor tilting beneath her. The thought that they weren’t alone was her only lifeline.
At home, the silence was suffocating. Her father stared at the wall. Her mother paced, phone in hand, too afraid to call anyone. Emma watched them and knew they couldn’t give up.
“We’ll manage,” she said, breaking the quiet. “We’ve got family. We’ll get through this.”
Her father sighed heavily.
“But the cost—it’s too much…”
“We’ll find the money,” her mother cut in.
They sold everything: Emma’s flat, the car, jewellery, even furniture. Her parents drained the shop’s savings. Still, it wasn’t enough. So they did what felt natural—they turned to the family they’d spent years helping.
“We’re in trouble,” her mother’s voice trembled. “We need help. Any amount—whatever you can spare.”
Silence. Then excuses.
“Stay strong,” one aunt said. “We’d help, but we’re barely scraping by…”
“Oh, what a shame,” an uncle echoed. “We’re up to our necks in debt…”
“I would, but my savings are tied up,” a cousin said flatly.
Emma listened, numb. The same people who’d taken their money, lived in their home, used their connections—now couldn’t spare a single pound.
Only one distant cousin responded, sending a small sum with apologies. Emma knew it was a lot for him, and she was grateful.
“Thank you,” she said, choking back tears.
After that, she turned off her phone and clenched her fists. They’d manage—even if no one else believed in them.
They took a loan, putting her parents’ house on the line.
“Are we really doing this?” Emma’s hands shook as she gripped her head.
“We have no choice,” her mother said wearily.
They sat in the dim kitchen, drowning in bills. The lights stayed off to save money.
“If we default, we lose everything,” Emma whispered.
“If we stop, we lose your father,” her mother replied.
The money came fast—and disappeared faster. Every penny went to treatment, every procedure a flicker of hope. Emma stopped counting hospital trips, tests, prescriptions.
Her father improved. That was all that mattered.
“There’s progress,” the doctor said, rubbing his eyes. “But it’s a long road.”
Her mother exhaled. Emma nodded. They were ready.
They worked themselves ragged. Her mother kept the shop afloat, took on extra bookkeeping jobs. Emma worked double shifts, tutored late into the night, took freelance translation gigs.
“When did you last sleep?” her mother asked, finding her at the kitchen table at dawn.
“Can’t remember,” Emma croaked, brewing coffee.
They exchanged tired smiles. Hard—but they wouldn’t quit.
Two years of fighting. Two years of exhaustion, sleepless nights, endless numbers. But her father walked again. He returned to work. Became himself.
One evening, he sat at the table, looked at his wife and daughter, and whispered,
“Thank you.”
Emma squeezed his hand.
Only then did the family reappear.
“Emma, darling!” Aunt Nina chirped. “You’ve been so quiet! How’s your dad?”
Emma gripped the armrest, incredulous. Her aunt spoke as if those two years of silence never happened.
“He’s fine,” she said coldly.
“Oh, good!” Nina trilled. “We thought you were upset with us. But family forgives, right?”
Emma’s throat went dry.
“What do you want?” she asked, sensing the trap.
A pause. Then the inevitable:
“My son’s coming to Manchester—needs a place to stay while he finds a flat…”
“We’ve no room. Dad’s recovering—we’re not hosting,” Emma said, hanging up.
After her father’s recovery, the phone rang nonstop. Relatives who’d vanished for two years suddenly remembered them. They complained Emma was distant, accused her of coldness, pretended nothing had happened.
“We’re family!” a cousin huffed. “You act like a stranger!”
“Am I wrong to?” Emma shot back.
Those who’d found money for cars, weddings, holidays didn’t understand why they weren’t welcomed with open arms.
“You owe us nothing!” Nina declared.
“Nor do you,” Emma countered.
Three years on, life stabilised. The loan was repaid. The shop thrived. Emma bought a new flat. They weren’t just surviving anymore.
She rarely thought of her relatives—only when someone tried to “reconcile,” hoping to tap into their old generosity. They called them “stuck-up,” criticised their pride. They’d forgotten how they’d turned away.
“They’re just jealous,” her father said, closing the door on another “guest.”
Emma smiled.
“Maybe.”
She wasn’t angry anymore—but she’d never trust that “family” again. Now, they helped only each other—and those who’d earned it.
