Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse…
Emmeline had always lived alone. She and her husband had never managed to have children. At first, they hoped, tried, then considered adopting. She was the one who cared—her husband never seemed bothered. Perhaps she took too long preparing for such a serious step, hesitating, overthinking, until time ran out. After forty, she gave up the idea. Truth be told, she was afraid.
Her husband loved hiking—backpacks, tents, campfire songs. He played the guitar well, sociable, always in the middle of gatherings. When they were younger, Emmeline enjoyed it too. But with age, she grew tired. Weekend after weekend, trudging with a heavy pack, returning Sunday evening only to wake up Monday for work—mosquito bites, windburnt skin, ragged nails. She longed to sleep in, take a hot shower, use a proper toilet instead of squatting in the cold while insects feasted on her.
Too many adventures become exhausting. Her back ached, her joints protested, and eventually, she stopped joining him.
At first, he stayed home too, out of solidarity. But she saw how he sulked, restless. So she told him to go without her. He brightened instantly.
“You let him wander off alone? Mark my words, some woman’ll snatch him up,” her friend scolded.
“If she didn’t take him when we were young, she won’t now.”
“Don’t be naïve. A man’s worth doesn’t fade like ours,” her friend sighed.
“And what? Should I limp after him just so he doesn’t cheat? No. If he wants to stray, he’ll do it at home. Besides, we’ve got our usual crowd.”
“Sure, sure,” her friend muttered.
After that, he stopped inviting her. They drifted apart, conversations drying up. She noticed nothing unusual—until one day, he came home distant, distracted.
“Where did you go this time?” she asked, reheating soup.
“Same old route. Some new faces joined.”
“Photos? Did you take any?” Still trying to engage him.
“I told you, same route,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on his plate.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew. Exactly what her friend had warned her about.
Three days of silence, then—
“I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Didn’t think it’d happen,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
“Just like that?”
“She came instead of you. Been on a few trips. Can’t imagine life without her.”
“Is she young?”
He said nothing.
“Right. So what now? Moving in with her?” She forced calm, refusing to scream or cry.
“She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—I can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat.” He finally looked at her.
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, I… I don’t know…” He paced, agitated.
The flat was theirs, bought together. Every fiber of her rebelled—but after days of thinking, she agreed, insisting on choosing her own place. It hurt, watching his relief.
“I knew you were foolish, but not this foolish,” her friend said, tapping her temple.
“You’re right. But there’s a child involved. Not his fault. I’m not a monster. What do I need a big flat for alone?”
She got lucky—a bright one-bedroom, same neighborhood, freshly renovated. She didn’t ask about his new place. Why bother?
Now she was alone. She’d adjust.
Then, late one evening, the phone rang. Her brother. He only called once before—when their father died.
Emmeline had left their tiny village for the city, married well. To her family, she was rich. City life, her own flat. They expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but their envy, even her mother’s, wore her down. How could she explain that a flat wasn’t wealth, just necessity?
Her brother was their parents’ golden child. The son who’d care for them in old age. She felt like an outsider. Eventually, she stopped visiting. Then her husband’s hiking took over.
Ten years since her father’s funeral. The last time she’d been home.
This call couldn’t be good.
“Nathan? What’s wrong?” she asked, bracing for bad news. “Mum?”
“No, she’s alive. But poorly. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”
“I can’t. Maybe next month.”
Relief—Mum was fine.
“Thing is…” He hesitated. “Sarah left me. Said she’s tired of looking after Mum, two households, you know. Took the boys. I’m a man. I can’t keep house. I work. Mum’s no help—needs care herself.”
“Get to the point.”
“I’m not alone. New girlfriend. Pregnant. Can’t dump Mum on her. You take her.”
“Who?”
“Mum, obviously.”
“And the girlfriend?”
“Her name’s Lucy. Not married, but…”
“She makes you happy.” She heard his grin.
“And you’ll dump Mum on me.”
“You’ve got space. Pension money too. Mum hates Lucy. Just come get her.”
No matter how she argued, it was decided. She took unpaid leave, returned to the village. Mum had doted on Nathan, yet he’d toss her aside.
Mum recognized her—no joy, just resignation. Shrunken, frail. But she agreed to go. Emmeline saw the truth—Nathan was drinking. No wonder his wife fled.
They took nothing. Everything was worn, neglected. He bought the odd outfit, handed down scraps. He waved them off at the train station. Never called again.
Back home, Emmeline realized her mistake—should’ve bought a bed first. Her sofa was hers, carefully chosen for her bad back. That night, they’d manage. Next day, she overpaid for same-day delivery. Shoved hers aside, placed Mum’s by the window—she liked to watch the world.
Mum could shuffle around, but barely. Spilled soup, left taps running, forgot the stove. Emmeline returned from work to scrub floors, pick up shattered dishes. She switched to remote work—couldn’t leave Mum alone. The last six months, Mum didn’t leave bed.
Nathan didn’t come to the funeral. Too busy.
After, Emmeline returned to the office. The sofa stank of urine and decay. She couldn’t bring herself to toss it.
Just as life settled, the phone rang again—Saturday, too early. She dreaded his calls. Always trouble.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?” Nathan said.
“You? No. What now?”
He laughed, unfazed. “How’re you feeling?”
“My back hurts. Joints ache. Blood pressure’s a mess.”
“Perfect,” he chirped.
“Perfect?”
“Someone’s got to look after you, sis. Remember my eldest? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s gifted—needs uni. No colleges here. Thinks he’s a genius, wants to study in the city. So, he’s moving in with you. Just a year, till halls open.”
She froze. Again, no asking.
“I’ve got one bedroom. How’s that supposed to work?”
“We grew up four in one room. Worried about your reputation? He’s quiet.” Another bark of laughter.
“Share your food, no hassle. Company if you’re ill.”
“If?”
“Groceries. Calling 999.”
No matter her protests, he bulldozed on. She eyed Mum’s sofa. Glad she’d kept it.
Her nephew arrived two days later. Sullen, silent. Planted on the sofa, laptop open.
At least he won’t piss on the floor, she thought. But his presence unnerved her. Once, she came home early—blood pressure spiking—and found him with a naked girl. On her sofa.
The girl dressed, left unfazed. Emmeline tore into him.
“You smoke?” She spotted a cigarette butt.
“That was Jasmine,” he grunted.
“Not Chloe, not Hannah—Jasmine. Unacceptable. Tomorrow, I’m calling your uni about halls.”
“Don’t. I’ll sort it.”
Two days later, he left. No relief—just guilt. Nathan imposed, felt nothing. She suffered.
She waited for his angry call. It never came. So she rang him.
“Busy,” he snapped.
“Oh? I was busy too, but you dumped people on me.” She let loose—halls were available all along. No orgies in her flat. Prep for the wedding instead. Sold Mum’s house. Her share? Mum dumped so he could cash in. When his youngest needed uni, he could rent a flat—she was done.
She hung up. He never called again.
Solitude suited her. But loneliness had claws. What came next? RetirementThe phone buzzed again, and this time, she answered it without hesitation, already knowing that life, in its cruel and relentless way, had one more surprise for her.
