Late at night, my phone rang. I answered it to hear my daughter’s voice. “Mom, it’s me, Emily. I’m in trouble! My husband threw me out. I’ll come to you and Dad in the morning and stay at home.”
“Listen, Emily, you don’t have parents anymore. You don’t have a family home.”
“What?” my daughter interrupted, “What did you say?”
How can there be no home? I’m your only daughter. I have the right to this house!” Emily screamed over the phone.
“Just like that,” I replied calmly, “You don’t have a house. We gave it to Elizabeth. She’s the one who lives here now. We don’t want to know you. You’re not my daughter anymore.”
Don’t call here again. You’ve lost everything!” I ended the call sharply. After what Emily had done, I had every right to say all that.
Standing by the window, a memory surfaced about how our story began with a phone call.
That fateful call rang early one morning. I jumped out of bed and dashed to the landline.
“Hello!” I shouted.
On the other end, a muffled sob broke through.
“Hello, hello, are you there? Who is this?”
“It’s Margaret, it’s me, Anna.”
“Anna, why are you calling so early? Do you see what time it is?”
“I do, Margaret. Today I’m going into the hospital for surgery. I’m terrified for my daughter. Please promise, you and Geoff—don’t send Lizzy to an orphanage. Promise me.”
My sister Anna had always been eccentric, brimming with imagination and unpredictable actions. But this time, it was senseless.
I fidgeted with the phone, realizing something serious had happened that I couldn’t yet grasp. I felt dread creeping in.
“Anna, why didn’t you tell me sooner? What’s wrong? Which hospital are you going to?”
Anna had been ill for years, but never made a big deal of it. In the last month, her pain had worsened—she’d grown thin and ghostly. The diagnosis was grim. She’d needed emergency surgery but had been too reluctant to tell me. I was already a constant lifeline for her, financially and emotionally. Now this? Burdening me with her teenage daughter and her troubles.
“Margaret, the surgery might not succeed. Please, don’t abandon Lizzy.”
We arrived at the hospital within an hour. The surgery hadn’t started yet, but we couldn’t see Anna. In the corridor, huddled in a ball, was young Elizabeth. I knelt and hugged her.
“Will Mummy hurt?” The girl asked, tears streaming down her face.
“No, she won’t feel anything. She’ll be asleep.”
Four hours later, the surgeon emerged, his expression heavy as he told me my younger sister was dead.
We took Lizzy to our home. I walked into my daughter’s room and told her her mother was gone and Lizzy would now share a room with her. Emily glared at me but said nothing.
Ten days later, she flung Lizzy’s belongings out of her room and forbade her from entering.
The conversation with my daughter was brutal. She refused to compromise, vowing to repeat the argument each time Lizzy was given a place to sleep. To avoid conflict, we moved into the lounge room for them.
Lizzy had no other family. Anna never revealed Lizzy’s father, so her fate rested entirely with us. From then on, we never treated Emily and Lizzy differently. They were both our daughters.
Time passed. Emily graduated university and married. Her husband, Victor, was wealthier and older. None of it mattered to her. She packed her things and moved in with him.
After a month, she announced her wedding.
“Mom, I’m not asking for much. Just make sure your favorite little sycophant doesn’t come to the wedding. I won’t see her there.”
“Emily, you can’t do that. Lizzy is still your sister. To exclude her would be to hurt us.”
“She won’t be at my wedding!” Emily declared.
“In that case, Geoff and I won’t show up either.”
“Perfect! Glad we’re clear.”
I wept, but then steadied myself. I told Geoff we’d head to a seaside resort in Brighton.
“And how’s Emily’s wedding getting sorted?” Geoff asked, puzzled.
“Not at all. They didn’t invite us.”
“Lizzy, help me find a holiday place,” I said.
“We’re going on holiday?” Lizzy beamed.
“Yes, dear. We can afford it now.”
“Yay!” Lizzy shouted, twirling around the living room.
It was just the three of us. Lizzy finished school and started at the Architectural University, following her mother’s footsteps, or so Geoff theorized, suspecting a wealthy local artist as her father. I never cared—Lizzy was ours.
A year later, we were celebrating Lizzy’s 18th birthday when Geoff fell ill. He paled and collapsed. The ambulance rushed him to the hospital.
The doctor said it was critical. Only one imported medication could help. We’d get it in three days, but the cost was staggering. We were desperate.
I called Emily, knowing her husband could lend us the money.
“Emily, darling, Geoff is sick. We need a special medicine that costs more than I can say. Can you help us borrow it?”
A long silence from Emily made me anxious. As I was about to repeat my plea, she answered.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll talk to Victor and get back to you.”
It took an hour, but she returned.
“Mom, here’s the thing. Victor insisted on buying himself a flashy car, which he’d promised me forever. I can’t refuse. Either he buys the car or we give you the money.”
“Emily, dear, we’ll pay it back as soon as we can!”
“Come off it, Mom! You’ll send pennies at a time. I won’t get the car at all.”
“Emily, listen to yourself. Geoff could die. He needs your help.”
“I can’t help. Take out a loan. We’re not dying rich.”
The phone slipped from my hand. I was trembling, ready to faint.
“Aunt Margaret, what’s wrong?”
Lizzy rushed to me, steadying me just in time. I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Listen, Aunt Margaret. Let’s sell your flat. I can’t live there anyway. Five minutes there is torture. Let’s use the deposit for the medicine. The flat can sell at a discount, and you’ll get the cash.”
“Darling, we can’t do that. It’s your home. What would Anna think if she knew we used your good nature like this?”
“Aunt Margaret, aren’t you usually so clever? Who cares what my mother would say? Uncle Geoff’s life is in danger. That’s what matters. We need to act quickly.” Lizzy insisted.
I hugged her, overwhelmed by gratitude. I knew this was the only chance to save Geoff.
We listed the apartment the next day, and it sold swiftly for a decent sum. The deposit funded the medicine, delivered within two days. It worked, saving Geoff’s life. In a month, he was fully recovered. Our joy was boundless.
Once Geoff was well, we officially transferred the flat to Lizzy through the solicitor. She was grateful, and the remaining funds were invested.
We lived together, basking in our newfound happiness—until the night Emily rang to say she was returning after being thrown out by Victor.
“We only have one daughter, Lizzy,” I said coldly and hung up.
Years later, Lizzy married Thomas, a farmer with a sprawling countryside estate. His business was profitable, and he planned to expand into a canning factory.
She invited us to move in, but we opted to visit weekly. We always stayed in the well-kept guest room. Geoff became fast friends with Thomas, fishing and helping organize the farm. Lizzy designed the canning factory plan. We lived as a large, content, if scattered, family.
Emily was only remembered on her wedding day—the same day Geoff and I returned to the Brighton resort we had visited years before. Lizzy paid for the break, sometimes joining us.
Every year on that day, I reflected on how I’d raised a selfish child so crassly prioritizing luxury over our lives. Yet Lizzy, an orphan who’d lost her mother young, cherished us beyond all else, willing to give up everything for our happiness.
A Late-Night Call Unveils a Daughter’s Voice.
