**The Flat, or The Story of a Family**
Emily trudged home from school, trying to figure out how to hide the failing grade from her mum. It would be easier if Mum weren’t home at all. Then she could just stash the report card and say she’d forgotten it at school. But what about tomorrow? She couldn’t forget it every day. Eventually, Mum would find out.
*”I’ll hide it today and try to fix the grade tomorrow. Then she won’t be too cross,”* Emily decided, quickening her pace.
Mum reminded her daily how important it was to study hard. First, to uphold the family name—her father had been a professor. And second, to keep her mind sharp. Some illnesses ran in families. Emily’s grandmother had Alzheimer’s. She’d died when Emily was two.
Carefully, Emily slipped into the flat, careful not to slam the door. Mum’s coat hung on the rack—she was home. Tiptoeing, Emily undressed and crept to her room. She shoved the report card under her pillow, exhaling in relief. After changing, she sat down to do her homework. She even read the history chapter twice. Still, Mum didn’t come in. That wasn’t like her.
Emily cracked the door open, listening. Silence. Maybe Mum was ill and asleep? Their flat was large, with high ceilings and wide windows in the heart of London. The furniture was just as imposing—antique, dark wood. The hallway was lined with wardrobes, making it long and eerily shadowed.
Then the grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed, startling Emily. She steadied herself—just the old clock. She padded down the hall and peeked into the kitchen. Mum sat at the table, her head resting on folded arms.
*”Mum?”* Emily touched her shoulder.
Mum lifted her head, eyes red with tears.
*”Dad’s gone. Right in the middle of his lecture…”* Her voice was hollow. She pulled Emily close, sobbing into her shoulder. Emily held on, then burst into tears herself.
The next day, she didn’t go to school or fix the grade. There were other things—the hospital, the morgue, where Mum brought Dad’s best suit and nearly new shoes.
At the funeral, the university crowd was thick—colleagues, students. Emily barely recognised the man in the coffin. But Mum wept over him, murmuring, *”How will we live without you? Why did you leave us?”*
Afterwards, Mum stayed in bed for days, crying and refusing food. Emily made pasta or frozen meals. When they ran out, she asked Mum for money.
*”Take it,”* Mum said, not even asking why.
Emily bought sausages, bread, and more pasta.
One evening, she came home to find Mum cooking soup. A glimmer of hope.
*”How’s school? What have you been eating?”* Mum asked. Emily told her. *”Forgive me. I forgot about you. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Dad’s department. They’ll give me a job—they won’t say no. We have to carry on.”*
Mum was thin and pale, nothing like she’d been when Dad was alive. But she wasn’t crying. That was something.
The new department head, Dad’s former student, hired Mum as a lab assistant. Without a degree, she couldn’t teach. The pay was low, so she took an evening job cleaning the department.
*”Imagine—the professor’s wife mopping floors,”* Mum sighed.
Emily often helped. Still, money was tight. Mum sold her gold jewellery to faculty wives, accepting whatever they offered. Eventually, even that ran out.
A neighbour offered to buy some furniture. Mum refused.
*”The flat wouldn’t be the same without it.”*
*”Well, if you change your mind, I won’t pay as much later,”* the neighbour sniffed, leaving.
Emily asked why Mum treasured the furniture but sold all her gold.
*”You’re still naive. This is antique. Museum-quality. Even in the war, they didn’t sell it.”*
Then Mum told her how they’d come to live here.
She’d arrived from a village to study at university, living in halls. Dad was a lecturer, older—she’d fallen for him. They hid their relationship. When Mum got pregnant, Dad brought her home.
They married, despite his mother’s disapproval. She’d resented Mum, considered her beneath them.
*”I nearly left, but your dad stood up for me. Then you were born. His mother softened. One day, she went shopping and never came back. Dad searched everywhere. A neighbour found her at the train station—she’d forgotten they’d sold the cottage after Grandad died.”*
*”She’d leave the gas on, the taps running. I had to watch her every minute, and you were just a baby. Two years of it. By the end, she didn’t know anyone…”*
When she died, Mum turned her room into a study for Dad. He worked tirelessly, publishing papers. *”Remember how kind he was? I loved him. But the last years were hard. Becoming professor drained him. And I was still young…”*
*”He started forgetting things, like his mother. Mid-lecture, he’d blank. Terrified of being forced to retire. His heart gave out.”*
Emily was in sixth form when Mum brought Victor home.
*”Is he living here now?”* Emily scowled.
*”He doesn’t drink, earns well. It’ll be easier. I won’t have to clean the department.”*
Emily avoided him, even eating separately. Mum said he’d divorced, left his flat to his ex-wife and daughter.
Once, Emily saw him stroking the furniture. She hinted he’d married Mum for the flat and antiques. Mum brushed her off, talking of loneliness. Victor was younger than Dad—even younger than Mum.
For months, things were fine. Mum smiled again, dressed well. Then she caught a cold. The cough lingered, worsened. Emily begged her to see a doctor.
*”I did. They gave me medicine. I’ll be fine.”*
But she wasn’t. She wasted away, her face twisting with pain when she coughed. Hospitalised, she faded despite treatments.
Victor made broths, sent Emily to deliver them. It didn’t help. One morning, the phone rang. Victor answered.
*”I’ll come now.”*
*”Who was that?”* Emily asked.
He turned sharply—not scared, but defiant.
*”The hospital. Your mum… she’s gone.”*
*”I’m coming with you.”*
At the hospital, they said Mum had a heart attack overnight. The nurse had slept through her call.
*”Just us now. Orphans. Oh, Vera, why’d you leave us?”* Victor wept drunkenly.
Emily cried alone in her room.
Only two faculty women and the neighbour saw Mum off. They pitied Victor, comforted Emily.
Days later, Emily overheard Victor on the phone.
*”Be patient. Not yet, they’ll suspect…”*
She stepped out. *”Who was that?”*
*”A loan shark. I borrowed for Vera’s treatment. They want the money—they’ll take the furniture.”*
She believed him.
They lived in silence. Victor drank more, sometimes wandering into her room.
*”You hate me, don’t you? But your mum loved me. We’re all we have.”*
*”You have a daughter.”*
*”We don’t speak.”*
Autumn brought university. Lecturers asked if she was Professor Davenport’s daughter. Students avoided her.
Winter came. Emily caught a cold, the cough worsening.
*”See a doctor,”* Victor said, making her a honey drink.
She left it untouched. The same kind she’d taken to Mum.
At the hospital, they found nothing. Desperate, she went to the police.
*”My mum died mysteriously. Now I’ve got the same symptoms.”*
*”You need a hospital, not us.”*
Outside, she wept. A young officer, Nick, listened.
*”Call me tomorrow after he leaves. We’ll check.”*
They searched the flat. Nick found an empty vial in the bin.
*”This has a poison used in your mum’s death.”*
That evening, Victor loomed over her bed. She pretended to sleep. Later, he called someone. *”It’ll all be over soon…”*
Then the doorbell rang.
*”You can’t arrest me! I live here!”* Victor shouted.
Nick held up a warrant. *”For the murder of Vera Davenport—and now you’re poisoning her daughter.”*
Victor was taken. Nick got Emily treatment. She recovered.
Victor went to prison. Emily sold some furniture, kept some. Nick helped redecorate.
*”Stay,”* she said. *”I feel safer with you.”*
Six months later, they married. The flat was no longer a museum, but it was home.
They lived happily in their bright, newly painted flat, where the past was finally just a memory and the future stretched ahead, full of hope.
