Emily hurried home. The slushy snow hid patches of stubborn ice, and her feet slipped, slowing her down. Puddles pooled on the road, and speeding cars splashed muddy water onto distracted pedestrians. She kept her distance from the pavement’s edge.
By the time she reached home, her back was damp with sweat, her legs ached from exhaustion, and her feet were soaked. She needed new boots—she’d known that for ages.
In the hallway, Emily collapsed onto the ottoman. She kicked off her boots and wiggled her toes in damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would do her good—ward off a cold. Before she could prop her boots by the radiator, a knock rapped against the wall. That was Mum’s way of calling her—tapping a spoon. Emily sighed and went to her mother’s room.
“What is it, Mum?”
Her mother mumbled something unintelligible.
“I was at work,” Emily said, rearranging the crumpled blanket. The sharp scent of urine hit her. “You need changing.”
She fetched a fresh nappy from the bedside pack and peeled back the blanket. Fighting a wave of nausea from the acrid smell, she changed the soiled one while her mother murmured wordlessly.
“Done. I’ll make dinner soon.” She lifted the heavy nappy and left, ignoring the muffled noises. She’d trained herself not to gripe or resent her mother—pointless, only making things worse. A brief rest would be heavenly, but that luxury wasn’t hers. Mum always needed something.
Once, their family had been whole. Dad chaired a university department. Mum kept the home, waiting for him. Everything shattered overnight. Emily finished Year 10; her brother, Oliver, had just passed his third-year university exams when Dad died.
A desperate parent had tried bribing him to secure her son’s admission. Dad, scrupulously honest, refused. Furious, she falsely accused him of taking the bribe anyway. An investigation followed. The stress broke him—he collapsed from a heart attack on the way to hospital.
Mum never recovered. She faded, vacant-eyed, ignoring Emily and Oliver, then abruptly cooking as if expecting him home. They’d had a cleaner, Lucy, who shopped at the market—Mum refused supermarket produce. After Dad’s death, they couldn’t afford her. No one but Dad had worked. Emily took over, and Mum treated her like staff, calling her Lucy, barking orders.
Savings vanished fast. Mum had splurged on clothes and jewellery—Dad never denied her. Once, his colleagues visited often. Now, Mum still demanded fancy dinners, then forgot and scolded Emily for overdoing it. School was Emily’s only respite, but she left to work.
Oliver insisted—if he quit uni, he’d be drafted. No use then. But if he graduated, he’d help financially. Sensible, at the time. Emily, a promising pianist from music college, found work at a nursery for meagre pay. She could check on Mum during naptime.
After graduation, Oliver moved to London. His promised help never came. “It’s tough out here,” he’d say when she begged for money—just enough for a carer.
They’d never been close. Oliver got Mum’s looks—brown eyes, thick hair, tall frame. Emily was born late—Mum nearly forty—sickly, plain, with Dad’s grey eyes and thin lips. Mum pitied her. Only Dad praised her music. She’d play for hours just to feel his hand on her head.
Oliver rarely visited. Once, she found Mum’s jewellery box half-empty. She knew he’d taken it. Mum accused her. He denied it, hung up. Emily claimed she’d sold some to survive. Mum raged but didn’t call the police. She’d never believe her golden boy stole.
One winter, Mum bundled up in furs and gold, shopping for Dad and Oliver’s nonexistent gifts. Emily found her freezing in the park after a mugging. She survived but never walked or spoke again.
Oliver finally visited. “It stinks. You’re neglecting her.”
Emily snapped. “Take her, then. Let your wife care for her.”
He fled after Mum didn’t recognise him. “Put her in a home. You’ll ruin your life.”
“She’s your mother! You’d dump her?”
“She’s a vegetable. Look at you—when was your last haircut? Musician’s hands? Peasant’s.”
“How often did I beg for help? You stole everything. Want the rest? Go ahead.”
Uncharacteristically, he backtracked. Then came the pitch—his family needed space.
“You want the flat.”
“We’ll sell it. You get a smaller one. I deserve my share.”
“And Mum?”
“She’ll die soon. Agree, or I’ll sue.”
Defeated, she relented—if the new place had a large kitchen. He promised.
The “flat” was a noisy shoebox by a busy road. “Be grateful it’s not a bedsit,” he scoffed.
Summer heat and winter drafts tormented them. Mum died months later. Oliver skipped the funeral—his wife had just given birth. Emily borrowed for the burial.
A colleague suggested a seaside break in Cornwall. She agreed.
There, she helped a wheelchair-bound woman stuck in sand. Her son, Michael, walked Emily home. She visited often.
Michael’s mother hinted: “Stay. He likes you.”
Fruit baskets appeared—his quiet courtship.
But after gruelling market days in his stall, cooking, and gardening, she realised—no love, just labour.
“I’m leaving,” she told his mother.
Back home, Oliver called—crippled in a crash, abandoned. “Take me in.”
“Where? The flat where Mum died? After everything?”
“Please. I’ve nowhere.”
“You never cared. Ask your family.”
Guilt gnawed her—briefly. “No more servitude,” she vowed.
Later, orphaned twin boys at the nursery charmed her. The headmistress suggested fostering—if she married. Her brother-in-law offered a sham marriage.
It became real. A daughter followed.
Oliver went to a care home.
Emily had her family at last.
