“My son, please look after your sick sister. You mustnt abandon her!” whispered Mother, her voice frail as spider silk.
“Listen to me, son…” she breathed, each word a struggle. The sickness gnawed at her without mercy. She lay in bed, skeletal, almost transparent. Edwin scarcely recognised her. Once she had been strong, bright-eyed, alive. Now…
“Edwin, please, dont leave Dorothy… Shes delicate. Shes different, but shes ours. Promise me…” Her fingers tightened around his hand with surprising strength. Where did she find such will?
Edwin grimaced. His gaze flickered to his older sister, Dorothy, playing in the corner of their cramped London flat. She was past forty but still murmured to her dolls, humming tunelessly. She smiled as though death were not crouched in the room, but a carnival.
Edwin had built a lifea construction firm, a sleek Range Rover, a grand house in Surrey. But there was no place for Dorothy. His children shrank from her. His wife, Beatrice, called her “the madwoman,” though Dorothy was gentle, harmless, lost in her own world.
“But… you know… I have a family… and Dorothy… shes…” he stammered, trying to loosen his hand from Mothers grip.
“Son, your fathers house is yours. For Dorothy, Ive left a three-bedroom flat. Its all legal.”
“Whered you get the money?!” Edwin and Beatrice exchanged stunned glances, greed flickering behind their eyes.
“I cared for an old schoolteacher… Brought her food, medicine… She was kind. Never thought shed leave me the flat. Its in Dorothys name, for shelter. But you… you must watch over her. Later, it will go to your children. Who knows how long shell live?”
That night, Mother died.
Dorothy didnt seem to grasp she was alone. Edwin took her in at once and began renovating the flat.
“Why does Dorothy need all that space? She can stay with us. Well rent it out.”
At first, Beatrice didnt argue. Dorothy was no troublejust playing, laughing. But her oddness unnerved Beatrice. “Shes quiet today, but what about tomorrow?”
“Just a little longer,” Edwin pleaded. Yet six months later, with a solicitors help, he transferred both the family home and Dorothys flat into his name. He tricked her into signing papers, never explaining.
Then the nightmare began.
While Edwin was at work, Beatrice tormented Dorothyshouting, locking her away, sometimes feeding her scraps like a stray cat. Hed find her weeping, trembling. One day, Beatrice struck her. Dorothy, terrified, soiled herself.
“Not just a simpleton, but pissing yourself too? Out of my house!”
She flung Dorothys things into a sack and shoved her out.
“Wheres Dorothy?” Edwin asked that evening, stretching in bed.
“She left!” Beatrice snapped. “Wet herself, then locked in the bedroom. When I opened it, she ran off with her bag. I wont chase a lunatic!”
Edwin said nothing. Then, “Well, if shes gone…” and turned on the telly. “Found tenants, by the way.”
The night stretched long. He thought of Dorothywhere was she? Helpless as a child. Only at dawn did he sleep, dreaming of Mother:
“I begged you, son…” she hissed from her coffin, wagging a bony finger.
The dream haunted him for weeks. He couldnt bear it. Two months later, he called his godmother, Margaret:
“What, Edwin? Guilt biting you?” she answered coldly. “Lucky I visited your mothers grave. Found Dorothy terrified, took her in. Ill keep her. Dont want her flat. You live with the shame.”
“Oh, godmother…” he mumbled, hanging up. Relief washed over him. Dorothy was safe.
But she died two months later, the same illness as Mother. Edwin didnt attend the funeral”urgent business.”
Ten years passed. Now Edwin lay ill, wracked with pain and regret. Beatrice lived with another man. His children visited rarely, noses wrinkled. “You smell like sickness.”
One day, Beatrice entered with papers:
“Sign these. Lets settle the firm.”
He signed. Too late, he realisedit was the deed to his house. Then the business. He remembered Mother, Dorothy. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Forgive me…” he whispered into the swallowing dark.
