When Emma was born, the midwife told her mother she would be a lucky child, as if she were born with a silver spoon in her mouth. And for the first five years of her life, Emma really was content: her mum would braid her hair and read picture books to her, only occasionally getting upset when Emma struggled to remember letters. Her dad taught her to ride a bicycle and took her to the countryside, letting her steer the car along the dirt road.
Then, when Emma turned five, her parents told her that soon she would have a little brother.
“You’ll get a birthday gift,” they said.
And indeed, the “gift” arrived precisely on her birthday, gradually overshadowing all of her subsequent celebrations. From the very first year, Jack began to occupy an exceptional place in their family. Initially, because he was the baby, and later, because he turned out to be a prodigy.
Jack learned to read before Emma, who, even at twenty, read slower than a first-grader (nowadays, they would call it dyslexia, but back then, terms like that were unknown, and she was sent to a remedial class). Jack could do math in a way that left his maths teacher running to consult Professor Alexander, and his odd but original poems were remarkable.
Emma’s happy life slowly faded away—her birthdays and everything else started revolving around Jack. She was the one who had to take him to school, English lessons, swimming, Professor Alexander’s sessions, music school, and the poetry club. Whenever she expressed interest in joining a home economics club, her mother protested:
“Do you want me to quit work and take Jack everywhere myself? You always think only about yourself!”
Emma gave in once again. If she managed everything perfectly, keeping up with Jack’s complicated schedule and preparing two different dinners (Jack turned vegetarian at six, while her father couldn’t go a day without meat), especially if she earned some money by walking neighbours’ dogs, her mother would praise her and stroke her short hair.
Emma’s hair was cut because her mother no longer had time to braid it; she needed to practice English with Jack in the morning or write down the poems he came up with at night. Emma’s own ponytail had often been untidy, earning red ink reminders from her teacher in the diary. Her mother disliked these notes and took her to the hairdresser’s for a short but cute haircut, though Emma cried all night for her lost braids.
“When you finish school, you can do what you like,” her mother would say whenever Emma weakly protested another chore related to her brother. “What’s the difference, you do nothing but read your recipes.”
After school, Emma didn’t gain any freedom. Besides preparing breakfast, lunch, and nutrient-rich dinners for Jack, ironing and washing his clothes, and handling other domestic details, she had become his unofficial secretary. She managed his schedule, oversaw contests and competitions, and organized his mails. When she hinted at wanting to work at a dog shelter, it wasn’t just her mother who scoffed; even Jack lamented that he wouldn’t manage without her.
So, Emma capitulated again.
Only once did she rise against the usual injustice—when she met Oliver.
Oliver wasn’t conventionally handsome—he was tall and a bit overweight, spending all day coding. His relatives bought him a dog hoping he might go outside more, but instead, he hired Emma to walk it. That’s how they met. Soon after, she started staying the night after walking his dog.
Her mother would call and demand her home—she despised ironing shirts, yet Jack wore them exclusively. Jack complained, too, that no one was there to sharpen his pencils, and that their dad had once again only brought over pies.
“Leave me alone!” Emma would yell. “I’m not your maid!”
Oliver would kiss her tear-filled eyes and promise they’d marry one day. But then he left for America after landing a lucrative job.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said.
When it was announced that Jack would receive an award, their parents were over the moon—telling the whole neighborhood, with her mother rushing for a beauty salon appointment, while her dad’s only concern was the monetary award, dreaming about finally buying the new car he couldn’t afford. Maybe Jack would share some of it.
Emma gained even more responsibilities—beyond the usual tasks, she corresponded with organizers, booked flights, searched for hotels with pools and vegetarian menus, and so forth. She was utterly exhausted, and when they arrived, everything was prepared: the tuxedo, the speech, and an audience was already waiting in the hall. Emma gave Jack a weary peck on the cheek backstage and hoped her parents saved her a seat.
A tall usher at the hall’s entrance blocked her path.
“Staff isn’t allowed in there.”
“What?” Emma was confused.
“Wait for your host backstage,” explained a younger, cheeky staff member with an assessing glance. “That outfit isn’t suited for in there.”
Emma glanced down at her old dress—she simply hadn’t had time to change. Yet it wasn’t too shabby. But she was indeed mistaken for the help. They weren’t entirely wrong: a servant is a servant, after all.
Jack gave her a long, surprised look, and for a moment, Emma thought he’d tell them, “Let her through; she’s my sister!” But he said nothing. The presenter was already announcing his name, and Jack walked towards the stage, not looking back.
Emma sat on a low stool against the wall, closed her eyes, and mentally went through her checklist: pick up the suit from the cleaners, book the hotel and restaurant dinner, sort emails—it had been two days since she last checked them. How many congratulations were pouring in—how was she going to get through them all!
Emma wasn’t listening to Jack’s speech—she’d heard him practice it flawlessly yesterday. The usual thanks to the parents and mentors, and promises to work for the good of the nation and world harmony. Emma had an excellent memory and could almost mentally follow along.
But suddenly, things veered off-script. Instead of the prepped gratitude, Jack said:
“I was supposed to say something different, but listen… There’s only one person without whom I wouldn’t be here now.”
Emma imagined how her parents exchanged triumphant glances—each believed their contribution the most significant, and perhaps Alexander had tumbled off his cloud.
“She spent her whole life on me. I took it for granted. But it’s time to repay kindness with kindness, although her role in my life is invaluable, and no treasure can truly recompense her.”
Her dad’s forehead probably veined as usual when upset, and her mother, undoubtedly, flushed with teary joy.
“I dedicate this day to you. And all the prize money I have received today, I want you to have, so you can start the dog shelter you’ve always dreamed of, and do whatever makes you happy.”
The words reached her differently, coming closer, and as Jack grabbed her hand, pulling her on stage, Emma scarcely grasped what was happening.
“Meet my sister, Emma. Without her, I’d have achieved nothing.”
Applause erupted, bright lights blinded her, and only then did the reality dawn on her. She looked at Jack with grateful eyes, and he smiled back, a smile that healed everything—Oliver’s departure, the missed home ec club, the longing dogs in the shelter… She stood there hunched and scared, yet something within her started to unfold her shoulders.
Jack indeed gave her the money. He even hired a young guy whom Emma taught everything she’d done for her brother all those years.
“You won’t have to serve me anymore,” Jack said. “I’m sorry, Emma; I was a blind fool.”
And Emma forgave him. She set up a dog shelter, enrolled in chef school, and started her own small business—though she often had to work at the counter herself, it was exactly as she dreamed.
One chilly October evening, just as she was closing up, the shop bell rang, indicating a customer. Emma warmly smiled at the tall man in the black coat, about to ask what he wanted, but paused.
It was Oliver. Leaner, more solemn, weary. Yet still so familiar.
“You’re back…”
Emma felt her knees weaken and gripped the counter.
“Emma,” he smiled. “Forgive me for being such a fool, I was so wrong…”
Well, another main man in her life asking for forgiveness—what more could she ask for?
Her father never asked for forgiveness—they no longer spoke with her, assuming she had manipulated Jack into giving everything to her. But it didn’t matter—parents are who they are. And Oliver… He returned, and now Emma knew everything would be alright.
