Late one evening, the telephone rang. I lifted the receiver and heard my daughter’s voice.
“Mum, it’s Emily. I’m in trouble! Richard has thrown me out. I’m coming to you tomorrow with the car and will stay at the house.”
“Listen, Emily,” I said, “you have no parents now, and there is no home for you anymore.”
“What? What did you say?” my daughter interrupted, incredulous.
“How can there be no home? You know I’m your only child. I have a right to this flat!” Emily screamed down the line.
“Well, then,” I replied calmly, “there is no flat now. We gave it to Clara, and she’s the one who calls the shots here. You and Richard can go to blazes. You are not my daughter anymore. Don’t call here again. You’ve lost everything!” I ended the conversation, furious at the way she had treated us. That same night, standing by the window, I recalled how our story had also begun with a phone call.
All those years ago, it was early morning when the phone rang. I jolted out of bed and dashed to the corded receiver.
“Hello?”
A muffled sob came through the wire.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Anna.”
“Anna, why are you waking me up? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, I do. I’m going into the hospital tomorrow for an operation, and I’m terrified for our daughter. I beg you, Henry—you don’t abandon Clara. Please don’t put her into State care.”
My sister had always been eccentric, prone to wild acts and vivid imagination. But this was the most drastic thing she had ever done. I twisted the phone cord in my hands, realizing something deeply wrong had happened. It terrified me.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? What is the diagnosis? Where are they admitting you?”
Anna had been unwell for years but had never made it a big issue. In recent weeks, the pain had worsened. She had wasted away, and the prognosis was grim. She just could not bring herself to tell me. I had always bailed her out, provided the bills, been a mother to her. Now, here she was, burdening me once more with her problems and her child.
“Please don’t leave Clara. The surgery’s outcome is uncertain,” she whispered.
We arrived at the hospital in less than an hour. The operation had not yet started, but we could not see Anna. In the corridor, hunched over like a frightened sparrow, was the little girl. I walked over and hugged her.
“Mama will be hurt?” she asked through tears.
“No, love. She will be asleep,” I said.
Four hours later, the doctor came out and told me my younger sister had died.
We took Clara home. As I walked into our daughter’s room, I told her her mother was dead, and she would now share the room. Emily glared at me and said nothing.
Ten days later, she tossed Clara’s belongings out of the room and forbade her from stepping in.
The conversation with my daughter was brutal. She insisted on this cruelty, declaring again and again that she would throw Clara’s things out if we insisted. To avoid conflict, we moved into the living room and gave the girl our old bedroom. Clara was an orphan. We could never discover who her father was. From then on, we treated both girls equally. They were both our daughters.
Time passed. Emily went to university and married a wealthy older man named Richard. His fortune and age mattered not to her. She quickly packed her things and moved in with him. A month later, she informed me about the wedding.
“Mum, I just want you both to make sure this… spoilt brat doesn’t come to the wedding. I hate her.”
“Emily, you can’t do that. Clara is your sister. You’d be humiliating us if you left her out,” I protested.
“She won’t be at my wedding!” Emily snapped.
“In that case, neither Henry nor I will attend.”
“Great! We agree.”
I wept but eventually made the decision to book a summer cottage in Cornwall for a holiday.
“What about Emily’s wedding?” Henry asked.
“No, we weren’t invited.”
Clara helped me book a cottage.
“A holiday?” she asked.
“Yes, darling. We can afford it now.”
“Brilliant!” she cheered, running around the room.
We were just the three of us. Clara neared her education and went on to study architecture, following in her late mother’s artistic footsteps. Henry, looking at her, was convinced she took after a local figure he’d suspected as Anna’s partner. I never pushed for details. Clara was ours.
A year later, we celebrated Clara’s 18th birthday. That day, Henry collapsed, pale and unconscious. The doctors told us he needed a specific imported treatment to live—expensive, scarce, and a miracle. We called Emily, hoping her husband’s wealth might loan us funds.
“Hi, Mum. I hear you need money,” she said flatly after my explanation.
A long silence followed, which unnerved me. She eventually replied, “I’ll talk to Richard and get back to you.”
An hour passed before the call came.
“Mum, the thing is… Richard promised me a new car. He’s been hinting at this for months. It’s either he buys the car or we send the money to you.”
“But, Emily, if we don’t pay, Henry might die.”
“Oh, come on. When are you two going to repay me? Drop by each month with a few pounds? No chance. That car is just as important as your life.”
I dropped the phone in shock. Clara, who had overheard the conversation, rushed to support me as I wept.
“Listen, Aunt Margaret,” she said. “Let’s sell your house. I can’t live in it—I hate it. Give the deposit for the drug. I’ll sell it for less than market price so you can afford the deposit. Please, just save Uncle Henry.”
We sold the house quickly, paid for the medicine, and managed to save Henry. Clara had given us everything she had. The treatment worked, and in weeks, Henry was on his feet again.
After his recovery, we formally gave the house to Clara. The remaining funds went into savings. We lived together, happy, until another night call came.
It was Emily, announcing Richard had left her without a penny.
“Sorry, no,” I replied. “We only have one daughter now. Come to Clara.”
Years later, Clara married a farmer, Thomas, with a thriving estate in the Cotswolds. We visited her regularly, staying in the neat guest room she had prepared. Henry and Thomas became friends, often fishing together. Clara designed a canning factory for the estate, and we thrived as a family, if not always together.
On Emily’s original wedding day, the only memory I cherished was of the Cornish cottage: the very same place we’d spent our holiday years before. Clara always booked the tickets for us, sometimes tagging along. On that day, I thought about how I had raised a selfish child who valued euros over lives, while Clara, an orphan, had given up her home to save ours.
