It was simply fate.
Charlotte hurried home, her boots slipping on patches of ice beneath the slush. The road was slick with puddles, and every passing car sprayed filthy water onto unsuspecting pedestrians. She hugged the inside of the pavement, keeping well away from the kerb.
By the time she reached her building, her back was damp with sweat, her feet ached, and her tights were soaked clear through. She really needed new boots.
In the hallway, Charlotte collapsed onto the stool, peeling off her sodden shoes and wiggling her toes in the damp fabric. She could do with a strong cup of tea—something to keep a cold at bay. But before she could even set her boots by the radiator, a sharp knocking echoed through the wall. Her mother’s way of summoning her—rapping a spoon against the plaster. Charlotte sighed and went to her mother’s room.
“What is it, Mum?”
Her mother only groaned in response.
“I’ve been at work.” Charlotte moved to the bed, adjusting the slipped blanket. The sharp tang of urine hit her. *The nappy’s full.* She reached for a fresh one from the bedside pack, peeling back the covers. Fighting back nausea, she changed the soiled pad while her mother moaned incoherently. Words were beyond her now.
“All done. I’ll make dinner soon.” Charlotte scooped up the heavy nappy, ignoring the muffled protests, and left. She’d trained herself not to resent it. Complaining wouldn’t help. Nothing would.
Once, they’d been a normal family. Her father had chaired a department at the university, her mother had stayed home, waiting for him. Then, in a single day, everything crumbled. Charlotte was in Year 11, her brother George finishing his third year at uni when their father died.
A mother of one of the applicants had tried to bribe him—offered him money to rig the admissions. He’d headed the selection board. A principled man. Honest. He’d never abused his position.
The woman, humiliated, took revenge. Reported him, lied, said he’d taken the money anyway. An investigation began. His heart gave out before he reached the hospital.
Their mother never recovered. Slowly, she lost herself. Sat for hours, staring at nothing. Then, in a sudden burst, she’d rush to the kitchen and cook dinner, as if waiting for him to walk in. She never acknowledged his death.
At first, a carer named Emily came twice a week—cleaned, shopped at the market. Their mother refused supermarket food. But after their father’s death, the money ran out. Charlotte took over. Their mother treated her like hired help, refused to see her as her daughter. Called her *Emily*, barking orders.
Savings disappeared fast. Their mother had never been frugal—always buying clothes, jewellery. Beautiful once, she’d been indulged. But now the flat was silent. No more colleagues visiting, no celebrations.
George was the one who said it first: Charlotte had to work. If *he* dropped out, he’d be drafted. So he’d finish uni, get a job, send money back.
Back then, it made sense. Charlotte left school, took a job at a nursery. She’d studied music, had promise. The manager hired her for the children’s recitals. The pay was meagre, but she could check on their mother during naptime. Most of her wages went on rent and her mother’s medicine.
When George graduated, he moved to London. His promises of help evaporated. When she begged for money—just enough for a carer—he claimed he was struggling too. Paying rent. Couldn’t spare a penny.
They’d never been close. George had inherited all the beauty—dark eyes, thick hair, a strong jaw. Their parents had married late. Their mother was over forty when Charlotte was born. A weak, sickly child, nothing like her brother.
Only their father had shown her kindness—praising her music, stroking her hair when she practiced. But he was gone now, and her mother barely remembered her.
George rarely visited. Once, after he left, Charlotte checked her mother’s jewellery box. She needed money. Half of it was gone. She knew it was him. But their mother blamed *her*, screamed, threatened to call the police.
Charlotte rang George. He feigned ignorance, hung up. To their mother, she admitted to selling some—said they needed the money. The woman raged but didn’t call the police. She’d never believe her golden boy was a thief.
Then, one winter, their mother slipped out—wrapped in her fur coat, the last of her gold. Thought it was Christmas, wanted gifts for her husband and son. Charlotte found her at dusk, half-frozen in the park. Mugged, left for dead. She survived, but never walked properly again. Lost her speech. Lost most of her mind.
George visited once. Crinkled his nose at the smell.
“You’re not looking after her properly,” he accused.
Charlotte snapped. “Then *you* take her. Your wife can care for her.”
He lasted seconds in their mother’s room before fleeing. “She doesn’t even know me. It’s unbearable. Put her in a home.”
“That’s *Mum*!”
“She’s a vegetable. Look at you—when was the last time you had a haircut? You’re a musician, and your hands look like a labourer’s.”
“And how many times did I ask you for help? Instead, you stole her jewellery. Come for the rest? There’s nothing left. Take what you want and *go*.”
For once, he didn’t argue. Just softened his voice—unnaturally so. That’s when she knew.
He wanted the flat.
“We need more space. I’ll sell this place. Buy you a smaller one, keep the difference.”
“And Mum?”
“She’ll be gone soon. A home would be better. If you refuse, I’ll take it to court.”
She didn’t sleep that night. Eventually, she agreed—on one condition. The new place had to have a large kitchen. Somewhere she could fit a bed.
“Of course, sis.” He’d never called her *sis* before.
The flat was a shoebox. A noisy, polluted street. The kitchen barely fit a stool.
“London prices,” he said, shrugging. “Be grateful it’s not a bedsit.”
Their mother died three months later. George didn’t come to the funeral, claimed his wife had just given birth. Sent no money. Charlotte borrowed from colleagues, buried her alone.
After, she cleared out the soiled bed, moved the kitchen sofa into the room. A colleague suggested a holiday—family in Cornwall had a spare room. Just pay for the train.
She went. Walked by the sea, breathed freely. One day, she helped a woman whose wheelchair had stuck. The woman’s son, Daniel, walked her home.
“Stay,” his mother urged later. “Daniel likes you. We’ve space. What’s waiting for you in that dirty city?”
For a while, she considered it. Daniel left baskets of fruit on the step. But one day, working his market stall under the sun, then cooking, then tending the garden, she realised—this wasn’t love. Just another person wanting her labour.
She left without goodbyes. Knew she’d made the right choice.
Months later, George called.
“I’ve crashed. Can’t walk. Wife left me. Let me move in.”
“*Where*? That tiny flat? The room Mum died in?” She laughed bitterly. “Remember when you wanted to dump her in a home? Stole her jewellery? Left me to struggle? Why should I help you now?”
“Please.”
“No.”
She walked to the station, guilt gnawing at her. “No more,” she muttered. “I’m living for *me* now.”
Later, at the nursery, a boy lost his parents. No family. She liked him. The manager suggested fostering—but she’d need to marry. A paper arrangement, with her brother-in-law.
She agreed. Over time, it became real. Nine months later, she had a daughter. A family.
George was sent to a care home. Alone.
