“Son, you shall have the house. Only, I beg you, care for your ailing sister. She must not be abandoned,” whispered the mother.
“Listen to me, son…” she breathed, her voice barely audible.
Each word cost her dearly. The illness stole her strength without mercy. She lay in bed, frail as a wisp of smoke. To John, she seemed a stranger—not the tall, vibrant woman with a kind smile he remembered. Now she was but a shadow.
“Son, I beg you, do not forsake Margaret… She needs protecting. She is not like others… but she is ours… Promise me…” His mother gripped his hand with unexpected force. Where did such strength come from, he wondered.
John winced. His gaze drifted to his elder sister, Margaret, who sat in the corner of their small flat in Manchester. Though past forty, she still played with a doll, humming tunelessly to herself. She smiled as if anticipating a holiday, not the loss of their dying mother.
John had built a prosperous life—his own construction firm, a luxury Land Rover, a spacious house along the Thames. Yet there was no place for Margaret there. His children shrank from her odd ways, and his wife, Catherine, called her “mad,” though Margaret was gentle, harmless, never troubling a soul.
“Well… you know… I have my family… and Margaret… she…” John mumbled, tugging his hand from his mother’s weak but stubborn clasp.
“Son, your father’s house will be yours… For Margaret, I’ve secured a three-bedroom flat. All is settled.”
“Where did the money come from?” John and his wife exchanged stunned glances, their faces brightening at the news.
“I cared for an elderly schoolmistress… brought her meals and medicine… She was kind, and I pitied her. Never did I think she’d leave me her flat. I put it in Margaret’s name, so she’d have a home. But you… you must watch over her, I beg you… One day, the flat may pass to your children or grandchildren… Who knows how long she’ll live…”
They said their farewells. That very night, his mother passed.
Margaret seemed not to grasp she was alone. John took her in at once and began renovating the three-bedroom flat.
“Why does Margaret need such a large place? Let her stay here for now. We’ll find tenants for the other,” he declared with enthusiasm to Catherine.
At first, Catherine did not protest. Margaret caused no trouble—she spent her days with dolls or sorting through her wardrobe, always smiling. But her strangeness unsettled. “She’s quiet today, but what of tomorrow?” Catherine muttered to her husband.
“Bear with her a little longer,” John pleaded. Yet within half a year of his mother’s death, with the help of a solicitor friend, he transferred both his father’s house and Margaret’s flat into his own name. He persuaded her to sign papers without explanation.
From that moment, his sister’s life became torment.
While John worked, Catherine tormented Margaret. She mocked her, locked her in her room for hours, refused to let her outside even in summer. Sometimes, instead of meals, she set out a bowl of cat food, shouting until the poor woman wept. Once, Catherine struck Margaret across the face. The fright caused her to wet herself.
“Not just mad, but incontinent too? Get out of my house—I can’t bear the sight of you!” Catherine shrieked.
She stuffed Margaret’s belongings into a bin bag and tossed them beyond the gate.
“Where’s Maggie? I haven’t seen her all day,” John asked that evening as he settled into bed.
“Gone!” Catherine snapped. “Imagine—your sister wet herself right in the sitting room, then shut herself in the bedroom. I had to force the door, gave her a piece of my mind, and off she ran with her bag. Am I to chase after her? Too proud, that one…” She sneered.
John froze. He weighed his thoughts in silence, then murmured, “Well, if she’s gone…” and turned on the telly. “By the way, I’ve found tenants for that flat.”
The night was long. John lay awake until dawn, haunted by thoughts of Margaret. Where was she? Was she safe? She had the mind of a child, helpless in the world. Only as morning neared did he drift off—and dreamt of his mother.
“I asked you, son…” she said from her wooden coffin, wagging a finger.
The dream returned each week, draining him. At last, two months after Margaret vanished, he rang his godmother, Anne, his mother’s old friend, hoping she knew his sister’s whereabouts.
“What, Jack, conscience troubling you?” Anne said coldly. “Lucky I visited your mother’s grave. Found Maggie there. Frightened, wretched. Still don’t know how the poor soul managed it! She’s with me now. I’ll care for her—I’ve no need of her flat. You live with your guilt. Pray your mind stays sound till the end!”
“Aunt, enough…” John growled, slamming down the receiver. He exhaled in relief—she was safe. Life could go on.
Margaret died two months later, felled by the same sickness as their mother. John did not attend the funeral—he had “urgent business” at the firm.
Ten years passed. Now John lay bedridden, his body aching, his spirit more so. Catherine seldom visited—she lived with a new man in the next room. His grown children came rarely, wrinkling their noses: “You smell again…” Like his kin, he faded slowly.
One day, Catherine entered with papers.
“Sign these. The business affairs must be settled.”
He signed. Too late, he understood—they were deeds to the house, then the firm. Memories of his mother and Margaret surfaced. Tears wet his cheeks.
“Forgive me… forgive me…” he whispered into the void.
