It was late when the phone rang. I answered, and heard my daughter’s voice.
“Mum, it’s Claire. I’ve had a disaster! My husband kicked me out. I’ll come back home first thing tomorrow and stay with you and Dad.”
“Listen, dear, you no longer have us as parents, nor a home.”
“What?—she interrupted—What did you say? How can there be no home? I’m your only daughter! I’m entitled to this house!”
“Claire,” I replied coolly, “we gave the house to Elizabeth now. She’s in charge. We’ve cut all ties with you. You’re not my daughter.”
Don’t call here again. You’ve lost everything!” I ended the conversation, furious after what she’d done. The right to say it was clear to me.
Standing by the window, I reflected on how my own story began with a phone call. That fateful one came early in the morning. I leapt from my bed and rushed to the landline.
“Hello?”
A muffled sob came through.
“Hello, is this Mary?”
“Yes, it’s me, Annie. I’m frightened. Please don’t leave Lizzy with the state. Take her in. Don’t send her to a children’s home.”
My sister, always eccentric and prone to wild decisions, had finally gone too far.
I twisted the phone, scared to fathom what this meant. Annie had been unwell for years but hid it. Now, after months of worsening pain and terrifying weight loss, the diagnosis was grim. She couldn’t bear to tell me, knowing I’d only support her again.
“Mary, the surgery risks everything. Please, promise to care for Lizzy.”
By the hour we reached the hospital, Annie had already died. We sat with young Elizabeth in the corridor, her tiny frame huddled in a corner. I hugged her.
“Will Mummy hurt during the surgery?” she wept.
“No, dear, she’ll sleep during it.”
The surgeon emerged four hours later. My sister was gone.
We brought Lizzy home. I walked into Claire’s room and told her of her cousin’s loss, advising she share her space. Claire glared silently and then, days later, threw Lizzy’s things onto the hallway, forbidding her from entering again.
After much arguing, we gave Lizzy our room. Martha and I slept in the living room.
Lizzy grew up without a father—Annie never disclosed who he was. We never treated Lizzy differently from Claire. Both were our daughters.
Years passed. Claire left home, married a wealthy older man named Victor. He bought her everything she wanted, and she moved in swiftly. A month later, her wedding announcement came:
“Mum, just please don’t let your favourite nuisance, Lizzy, attend. I won’t tolerate her.”
“Claire, that’s cruel. You’re her sister. To exclude Lizzy offends us.”
“She won’t be at my wedding!”
“Then we’ll not come either.”
“Perfect, agreed.”
I cried but clung to my plan to visit a seaside resort in Brighton that week.
“Mary, why the sudden trip?” my husband, John, asked.
“No wedding to attend, John,” I said.
“Come on, help me book a cottage, Lizzy.”
“Really? We’re going?” she asked, spinning with joy.
The three of us stayed. Lizzy graduated, excelled at university, and became an architecture student, following her mother’s artistic path—or so John joked about a local artist he believed to be Lizzy’s father.
Eighteen years later, John collapsed. The doctor needed an imported drug, costing £50,000 we couldn’t afford. I called Claire, hoping her richer husband would help.
“Hi, Mum. Dad’s critically ill. I need a loan for treatment.”
There was a pause. “Okay, I’ll speak to Victor and call back.”
She took an hour. “Mum, Victor insisted I get a new BMW. He said no car, no money. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Claire, your father’s dying! What about repaying in installments?”
“If I give you now, you’ll take years. I won’t have the car!”
“Are you mad? This is your father’s life!”
“Take a loan, then. We’re not responsible for everything!”
The phone clattered from my hand as I wept.
“Mrs. Smith, are you well?” Lizzy rushed over, steadying me.
“Let’s sell Grandma’s flat, Lizzy. You can’t live there anyway. Sell it for £250k. Give the deposit to the hospital.”
“You’d do that for us?”
“Of course. Time to act, not argue. Dad’s life’s the priority.”
The flat sold fast. The deposit paid the drug and saved John. Lizzy later transferred the property to her and donated the rest to charity.
Months later, the phone rang again. Claire, back after Victor left her. I rejected her.
“We only have one daughter, Elizabeth,” I said, hanging up.
Years later, Lizzy married Thomas, a prosperous farmer with a successful farm. He planned a jam factory. We visited often, living contented. Sometimes, I’d recall how Claire valued a car over her father’s life, while Lizzy, an orphan, gave all to save us.
