“No Room for Resentment”
“Emily, don’t make a fuss—just squeeze in a little. She’s your own sister,” Mum’s voice was ironclad, leaving no room for argument.
“Mum, what do you mean ‘squeeze in’? This is our flat—mine and Daniel’s! Where exactly are we supposed to fit her?” Emily barely held back her fury.
“Would you rather she live in that grimy student hall? We can’t afford a rental—have you seen the prices? It’s settled: Poppy’s moving in with you. It’ll put my mind at ease knowing she’s looked after.”
“Mum, we never agreed to this!”
“Now we have. Family helps family.”
“Family? Really? Then maybe you should remember how—”
“Enough. I haven’t got time. I’ll book the tickets and let you know.”
The call ended abruptly. Emily stood in the middle of the kitchen, gripping her phone as if it might offer answers. She was stunned by her mother’s audacity. Then again, why was she surprised?
Emily had always been the unloved one. When Mum remarried and had Poppy, six-year-old Emily was forced to grow up overnight.
“You’re the older sister—you help with the baby,” Mum would say. Chores piled up: hoovering, mopping, changing nappies, grocery runs, entertaining Poppy, and later, learning to cook. The stepfather vanished shortly after Poppy’s birth, leaving just the three of them.
Mum adored Poppy, spoiling her rotten. The best sweets? Poppy’s. New clothes? Poppy’s. Cafés and cinemas catered to Poppy’s whims. She grew up coddled, never lifting a finger while Emily shouldered the work.
Poppy flung her belongings everywhere, never tidied, only demanded:
“Sophie’s parents got her the new iPhone—I want one too!”
“What’s for dinner? Leftovers again? Let’s just order takeaway!”
“Where are my favourite jeans? Em, you didn’t wash them? Me? Why should I? I don’t even know how!”
“Clean up? No, I’ve got a headache. Do it yourself.”
Mum never argued. Emily tried to protest, only to hear:
“Poppy never had a father—it’s hard for her.”
“Neither did I, Mum!”
“I know. But you’re strong. Poppy’s delicate—like a flower. She needs more care.”
Mum spent her entire salary on Poppy, even took out loans for her whims. When Emily needed new trainers or a coat, Mum would snap, “Find something on sale or second-hand.” She never asked about Emily’s studies, her life.
Emily grew weary of the injustice and vowed to escape. She studied relentlessly, worked part-time jobs—handing out flyers, writing articles, courier gigs—hoarding every pound in a tea tin hidden on the top shelf.
One evening, exhausted from handing out leaflets in the freezing wind, she opened the tin—and nearly choked. It was empty.
“Poppy! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Poppy lazily crunched crisps.
“From my tin!”
“Oh, that? Yeah. I needed delivery money for new clothes and trainers. And sushi.”
“Are you insane?! That was my savings! Who said you could take it?”
“It was pocket change! Can’t you spare anything for your sister?”
“Not for sushi and clothes! Look what I wear!”
“Then buy your own! Why are you shouting?”
Emily locked herself in her room and wept.
When Mum returned, she lashed out:
“How dare you begrudge Poppy money? She’s family!”
“She blew it on takeaway and clothes!”
“So what? We help each other—that’s what family does.”
“Does she ever help me?”
“She’s a child! You’re the adult—act like one.”
Emily aced her exams, won a place studying Economics in London, and moved into halls. Life improved—she made friends, visited museums on student discounts, worked in cafés and bookshops. Mum and Poppy only called for reminders: “Poppy’s birthday—don’t forget to send money.”
After graduating, Emily landed an accountant job. Mum’s calls increased, fishing for money. Emily sent small amounts but refused more—she and Daniel were saving for a flat.
They married in a small registry office. Mum and Poppy didn’t come:
“Why bother? It’s just paperwork. No dress? No party? And the train’s expensive.”
Two years later, Mum announced Poppy would live with them during uni—no discussion. The flat was tiny, and Emily loathed the idea. But guilt flickered—where else would Poppy go?
Daniel reluctantly agreed—temporarily.
Poppy arrived, scoffing:
“What a dump! Couldn’t find somewhere closer to town? How am I supposed to commute?”
“Hello,” Emily said flatly. “Wash your hands. Dinner’s ready.”
Poppy wrinkled her nose. “This place is a shoebox.”
“Feel free to rent a penthouse.”
“Give me the money and I will. Mum’s broke—you know how it is.”
“You’ll sleep there.” Emily pointed to an air mattress. “Clothes go on the shelf.”
“The floor? Some hospitality.”
“Not this time. I warned you.”
Poppy recreated their childhood—mess everywhere, no help, eating their food, leaving lights on, never chipping in. Mum only cared if Poppy was fed and warm.
One morning, Daniel frowned. “Em, did you take money from the box? I hadn’t banked it yet.”
“What money?”
“Nearly three grand. Three months’ mortgage.”
Emily’s blood ran cold. The tin. Again.
She stormed into Poppy’s room. “Did you steal from us?”
Poppy yawned. “Borrowed. Money should be spent, not hoarded.”
“On what?!”
“A decent phone. Yours is ancient.”
“That was theft! Who said you could?!”
“Family shares. Mum always said so.”
Shaking, Emily called Mum. “Poppy stole our mortgage money!”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Kids want nice things. You should help her.”
Emily hung up. That was their last conversation.
That evening, she dumped Poppy’s suitcase in the hallway.
“Get out. And don’t call me again.”
Poppy begged—nowhere to go—but Emily slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
And then she laughed—with relief. Finally free of the family that never valued her.
Molly
Molly was unruly, dishevelled, and hopeless from the start. Her mother knew it, enforcing strict rules, though even they barely kept her in line.
All girls were girls—this one was a force of nature.
Each morning, Mum plaited Molly’s wild curls into a tight braid with bright ribbons, making her eyes gleam like a fox’s. Crisp dress, starched apron, lace-trimmed socks. Collar and cuffs sewn flawlessly—after two attempts under Mum’s watch. Polished shoes. A picture-perfect child.
By afternoon? Socks crumpled, cuffs stained, knees adorned with burrs. Ribbons escaped, the braid a frayed tail. Hair a riot of tangles, crowned with thistles.
Grease streaked her apron—she’d tucked a sandwich in her pocket during lunch. Was it her fault reading made her peckish? Later, in literature class, the scent of bread and butter tormented her. She caved.
Miss Reynolds, the young teacher, sniffed it out. She yanked the sandwich from Molly’s pocket, tossed it in the bin. Molly wailed:
“Wasting food?! You taught us better!”
The class erupted. Just last week, Miss Reynolds had read *The Happy Prince*—everyone sobbed for the sparrow. Now they howled. The teacher flushed, stammered excuses—lesson ruined. Her authority crumbled.
A hasty lie: “I’ll feed it to birds later.” No one bought it. Molly’s report book bore a scrawl: *Disrupted lesson with sandwich!!!* And a (sandwich-shaped) doodle beside the mark—so she couldn’t alter it later.
Post-scolding, hand-washed apron, and thirty minutes’ “detention” in the bath, Molly vowed never to argue again—but defiance brewed. Adults lied. She’d do things her way.
Thus, a school sandwich set Molly on her path—stubborn and free.
She never knew her father. Mum claimed he died a hero.
“In war?” Molly’s eyes brimmed.
“Not… exactly,” Mum hedged.
“Plane crash,” Gran cut in. “Went down in a nosedive.”
Gran knew the truth—what sort of “nosedive” Molly’s father had taken.Gran never told her the real story—after all, some truths were better left buried.
