Late one evening, the phone rang. I picked it up and heard my daughter’s voice.
“Mum, it’s me, Claire. I’m in trouble! My husband has kicked me out. I’ll be coming to stay with you and Dad tomorrow morning.”
“Listen, Claire, you don’t have parents anymore, and you no longer have your childhood home.”
“What?” my daughter interrupted. “What do you mean?”
“That’s right. You’re our only daughter, and I have a right to this flat!” Claire shouted hysterically into the phone.
“Not anymore,” I calmly replied. “The flat isn’t yours. We gave it to Lizzie. She’s the owner now, and your father and I don’t want to know you anymore. You’re not our daughter.”
“Don’t call here again! You’ve lost everything!” I dramatically concluded our dialogue. After what Claire did, I felt I was justified in saying this to my daughter.
Standing by the window, I suddenly thought about how our story also began with a phone call. That fateful call came early one morning. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the phone.
“I’m listening!”
A faint sob echoed from the other end.
“Hello, hello, who is this?”
“Molly, it’s me, Annie.”
“Annie, you’re scaring me. Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, I do. Molly, I’m going to the hospital today. I’ll be having an operation, and I’m terrified for my daughter. I beg you, please don’t abandon Lizzie, she’s still very young. Don’t put her in a children’s home.”
My sister Anna has always been eccentric, imaginative, and prone to unconventional acts. But today was beyond everything.
I anxiously fiddled with the phone, realizing something serious had happened, something I couldn’t quite grasp yet. I was frightened.
“Annie, why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why now? What’s happening? Where are you going?”
Anna had been ill for a few years but hadn’t paid much attention to it. The pain had worsened in the past month; she had lost weight and looked gaunt. The diagnosis was grim.
An operation was urgently needed. She hesitated to tell me. I had always helped her out of tight spots, provided for her like a mother. And now she was again burdening me with her problems and young daughter.
“They don’t guarantee the outcome of the surgery, Molly, please, don’t leave Lizzie.”
Within an hour, we were at the hospital. The operation hadn’t started yet, but we couldn’t see Anna. In the corridor, little Lizzie sat curled up like a small ball. I approached and embraced her.
“Will they hurt Mum?” the girl asked tearfully.
“No, Mum won’t feel anything; she’ll be asleep.”
Four hours later, the doctor came out and told us that my younger sister had passed away.
We took Lizzie home. I entered Claire’s room and warned her that Lizzie’s mum had died and the girl would share her room. Claire gave me an evil look and stayed silent.
Ten days later, she threw Lizzie’s belongings out of her room and forbade her from entering again.
The conversation with Claire was tough; she insisted on her stance and declared that she’d throw Lizzie’s stuff out every time she was placed with her.
To avoid a war, we gave the guest room to our niece and moved into the living room ourselves.
Lizzie was an orphan. Anna never revealed who her father was. Now her fate depended solely on us. So, we never differentiated between Claire and Lizzie. They were both our daughters.
Time passed. Claire finished university and got married. Her husband was wealthy and older. Neither of these things bothered her. She quickly packed and moved in with Victor. A month later, she announced the wedding.
“Mum, please, I don’t want that suck-up Lizzie at my wedding. I don’t want to see her.”
“Claire, you can’t do that. Lizzie is your sister, and not inviting her would offend us.”
“She’s not going to be at my wedding!” Claire said firmly.
“In that case, your father and I won’t come either.”
“Fine! Agreed.”
I broke down in tears but then composed myself and announced my decision to go to the Lake District for a vacation.
“What about Claire’s wedding?” my husband asked, surprised.
“It doesn’t matter; we weren’t invited.”
“Lizzie, help me find a place to stay.”
“We’re going on holiday?” Lizzie asked.
“Yes, darling, we can afford it.”
“Yay!” my niece shouted joyfully, spinning around the room.
The three of us stayed together. Lizzie was finishing school and prepared to enter university. She did brilliantly and became a student of the Architecture Institute. Her mum, Anna, was a great artist, well-known in her community, and Lizzie followed in her footsteps.
“Or maybe her father’s footsteps,” my husband Nicholas suggested, suspecting a well-known local figure of being Lizzie’s father.
I paid no heed to that. Lizzie was our daughter.
A year later, we celebrated Lizzie’s coming of age, and on that very day, my husband fell seriously ill. He turned pale and lost consciousness. We called an ambulance, and Nicholas was taken to the hospital.
The doctor informed us the situation was critical. My husband was sick, and only one particular medicine could help. The doctors could order it and have it delivered in three days. The only problem was the astronomical cost. We were desperate.
I called Claire, knowing her husband was wealthy and could lend us the money.
Claire picked up the phone. I explained our predicament.
“Claire, hello dear, I’m calling because your father is ill and desperately needs an expensive imported medicine. I’d like to borrow this sum from you.”
Claire’s prolonged silence worried me. Just as I was about to repeat my request, she answered.
“Okay, Mum, I’ll talk to Victor and call you back.”
We waited long for her call. Claire finally called back an hour later.
“Mum, here’s the situation. Basically, Victor promised to buy me a fantastic car, and I can’t disregard the condition he set. Either he buys me the car, or we lend you the money.”
“Claire, sweetheart, we’ll pay you back, don’t worry.”
“Mum, don’t say nonsense. When would you pay it back? Bit by bit? I might as well kiss that car goodbye.”
“Do you hear yourself, Claire? Your father might die. He needs your help.”
“I can’t help. Take out a loan. We’re not the only ones on this planet.”
The phone slipped from my hands. I was about to faint.
“Aunt Molly, what’s wrong?”
The girl rushed to support me so I wouldn’t fall. I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Aunt Molly, listen, let’s sell Mum’s flat. I can’t live there anyway; it’s unbearable. Don’t refuse. The main thing is for Uncle Nick to survive. We’ll list it below market value so you can get a deposit to pay the doctors.”
“My dear, we can’t do this to you. It’s your flat. What would your mother think if she knew I took advantage of your kindness?”
“Aunt Molly, you’re a smart woman. Is this the time to speculate on what my mother would say? Uncle Nick’s life is in danger. That’s what matters. Quick and wise decisions are needed now,” Lizzie said, anxiously.
I hugged my niece, unsure how to thank her. I understood it was the only chance to save Nicholas.
We listed the flat that day, and it sold quickly for a decent price. The buyer gave us a deposit right away, and we paid for the medicine.
It arrived two days later. The medicine worked. Lizzie saved Nicholas’s life. Within a month, Nicholas was back on his feet. We were overjoyed.
After Nicholas recovered, we decided to sign the flat over to Lizzie. We went to a solicitor, and he transferred the documents to our niece. The girl was very grateful. We put the remaining money in savings.
We lived together, enjoying life until a late-night call came through.
Claire was on the phone, announcing she was coming back home. Victor had left her and kicked her out.
I refused her.
“We only have one daughter, Lizzie,” I told her and hung up.
A few years later, Lizzie married. Stan was a farmer with a large house in the countryside. His business was thriving and generated a significant income. He was even considering opening a canning factory.
Lizzie urged us to move in with them, but we opted instead to visit them a couple of times a week.
We were always welcomed with a neat and cozy room. Nicholas and Stan became good friends, often going fishing together. Nicholas helped Stan with the farm any way he could. Lizzie designed the small canning factory project. We all lived in harmony, like one big happy family, even if not always together. We remembered Claire only on her wedding day—the day Nicholas and I would visit the Lake District hotel where we vacationed years ago. Lizzie would arrange our holidays and sometimes join us.
Each time on that day, I wondered how I had raised a daughter who valued a luxury car over our lives, while Lizzie, who lost her mother so young, treasured us above all, willing to give everything for our happiness.
