The phone rang sharply at seven in the morning, just as Lydia was heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She glanced at the screen and frowned—her younger sister, Emily, was calling.
“Hello, Em, what’s wrong? You know I’m barely awake yet.”
“Lyd, you need to come to Mum’s right now!” Emily’s voice was strained. “I’ve sorted everything, signed the papers. We’re selling Mum’s flat and moving her to a proper care home.”
Lydia nearly dropped the phone.
“What are you talking about? What care home? This is out of nowhere!”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” Emily shot back. “Mum’s losing it. Yesterday, she left the gas on. The day before, a neighbour found her on the stairs—she forgot which floor she lived on. We can’t let this go on!”
“Em, slow down. What papers have you signed?”
“Power of attorney to sell the flat. Mum signed it herself. I told her it was for her own good.”
Lydia felt a flare of anger.
“Have you lost your mind? How could you do this without me? She has two children, in case you’ve forgotten!”
“And where have *you* been all this time?” Emily snapped. “Popping in once a week for tea doesn’t make you the dutiful daughter! I’m the one who checks on her daily, does her shopping, makes sure she takes her pills!”
“I work day and night—you know that! And I don’t live just around the corner like you!”
“Exactly! So *I’m* the one deciding what’s best for Mum. Come by if you want to say goodbye to the flat. The estate agent’s coming tomorrow to value it.”
Emily hung up. Lydia stood frozen in the kitchen, phone in hand, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Her kid sister—the one she still thought of as flighty and irresponsible—had taken it upon herself to decide the fate of their seventy-five-year-old mother.
Lydia threw on her coat and rushed to her mother’s house. On the way, she remembered how, after their father’s death, she—the eldest—had shouldered the responsibility, helping with money, doctors, everything. Emily had been finishing uni then, living her carefree student life.
Mum’s flat was on the fourth floor of an old red-brick block. Lydia climbed the familiar stairs and rang the bell. The door opened to reveal Margaret Sullivan—petite, silver-haired, with sharp hazel eyes.
“Lydia, love!” She beamed. “You’re here early. Is everything alright?”
“Mum, we need to talk. Seriously.”
They settled in the kitchen. Mum put the kettle on and fetched biscuits from the cupboard.
“Mum, tell me about yesterday. What did you do?”
Margaret frowned in thought.
“Got up, had breakfast… Then Emily came over. We talked about something. She brought papers.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t remember exactly. She said it was important, something about my welfare. That I needed to sign.”
“And you did?”
“Yes, of course. Emily knows about these things. She’s an accountant.”
Lydia clenched her fists. Forgetful or not, her mother still deserved a say in her own life.
“Mum, do you remember what else Emily said?”
“Something about a home. Said it’d be better for me, that they’d look after me. But I don’t want to leave, Lydia. This is my home.”
Tears welled in her mother’s eyes. Lydia hugged her tightly.
“You’re not going anywhere. I won’t allow it.”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there—sharp-suited, her dark bob neatly smoothed, every inch the efficient professional.
“Oh, you’re already here,” she said, spotting Lydia. “Good. Now we can discuss this properly.”
“*Properly*?” Lydia stood up. “You call tricking a vulnerable woman proper?”
“I didn’t trick anyone! Mum signed willingly!”
“She didn’t understand what she was signing!”
“I’m right here!” Margaret cut in. “And I’ll not have shouting in my home!”
The sisters fell silent. Their mother rarely raised her voice—when she did, they listened.
“Emily, explain those papers to me again,” Margaret said quietly.
Emily sat beside her, taking her hand.
“Mum, I’ve arranged to sell the flat. Found you a lovely care home—clean, good food, a doctor on-site. You’ll have your own room, and we’ll visit whenever you like.”
“But I don’t *want* to sell,” Margaret whispered. “This is where your father lived. Where we raised you girls.”
“Mum, it’s not safe anymore. You could leave the cooker on, take a fall—”
“I have neighbours! I have you two!”
“Neighbours aren’t family. And we’ve got jobs. Lydia’s across town, I can’t be here every second.”
Lydia couldn’t stay quiet.
“Em, we could hire a carer. Or I’ll take Mum in.”
“A carer costs a fortune. And you’ve got a studio flat—where would she sleep?”
“We’ll figure it out!”
“*Figure it out*?” Emily’s voice rose. “Lydia, stop pretending to be the perfect daughter! You’d cram her onto your sofa? Expect me to keep juggling work, my own family, and racing over here?”
“I never asked you to!”
“No? Then who *should*? Did you think Mum would just look after herself?”
Margaret stood abruptly.
“Girls, go home. I need to think.”
“Mum—” Emily started.
“Go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Outside, the sisters faced each other in the courtyard.
“Lydia, I’m not doing this to be cruel,” Emily said quietly. “I’m *terrified* for her.”
“Then why not talk to me first?”
“What would that change? You’d argue, we’d drag it out for months, and Mum could’ve burned the place down by then!”
“You had no right to decide alone!”
“I *had* to! Because I’m the only one actually *here*! You swoop in like it’s a day trip—tea and sympathy, then off you go!”
“That’s not true!”
“It is! When Mum was hospitalised last year, who stayed with her? Me! Who gets her prescriptions? Me! Who does her shopping? *Still me!*”
Lydia wanted to argue back—but realised, bitterly, that Emily was right.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “You’ve done more. But that doesn’t mean you get to decide where she lives!”
“And what *are* you suggesting? Wait until she’s hurt herself?”
“I’m saying we find a better solution. *Together.*”
Emily exhaled sharply.
“It’s done, Lydia. The estate agent’s coming tomorrow. The home’s holding a place. The deposit’s due next week.”
“Cancel it!”
“No. No more delays.”
Emily turned toward her car. Lydia called after her:
“And if Mum refuses to go?”
“She won’t. She’ll see sense.”
“What if I challenge the power of attorney?”
Emily turned back, icy.
“Do it. But ask yourself—while we’re in court, what if something happens to Mum? That’ll be on *your* conscience.”
She drove off, leaving Lydia alone in the cold.
—
The next morning, Lydia took leave and arrived at Mum’s early, determined to settle this without upheaval.
But as she approached the building, she saw a car with “Estate Agent” on the door. Voices drifted from the open window of Mum’s flat.
Lydia stormed upstairs and rang the bell. Emily answered.
“Oh, you’re here. Good. Meet the agent—we’ve agreed terms.”
A middle-aged man stood in the lounge, tapping notes into his phone.
“David Clarke,” he introduced himself. “Lovely flat. Prime location. Should sell within six weeks.”
“Wait,” Lydia interrupted. “Where’s Mum?”
“Kitchen,” Emily said.
Margaret stood by the counter, stirring tea absently.
“Mum, did you agree to this?”
“Emily says it’s best,” she murmured.
“What do *you* want?”
Margaret looked up, weary.
“Does it matter? Emily knows best.”
Lydia marched back to the lounge.
“The sale’s off.”
The agent blinked. Emily shot up from the sofa.
“Lydia, what the hell?”
“Mum doesn’t want to sell.”
“She *agreed!*”
“Because you bullied her into it!”
The agent coughed awkwardly.
“Perhaps I should leave you to discuss this privately?”
“Yes, go,” Lydia said. “There’ll be no sale.”
“No, *not* go!” Emily snapped. “We’ve settled this!”
The man hesitated. “Er—who holds the power of attorney?”
“I do,” Emily**”But let me make one thing clear—this flat isn’t going anywhere until Mum decides it herself, and if you try to push this through, I’ll fight you every step of the way,” Lydia said, her voice trembling with resolve.**
