In the Crowded House, But Not at Peace
“Emily, it’s not the end of the world—just make a little room. She’s your sister, after all,” their mother’s voice carried a steeliness that brooked no argument.
“Mum, what do you mean, *make room*? This is *our* flat—Anton and I live here! Where exactly are we supposed to squeeze her in?” Emily’s voice trembled with barely contained fury.
“Oh, so she should rot in some grotty student halls instead? We can’t afford rent—have you *seen* the prices? That’s final: Charlotte’s moving in. I’ll sleep easier knowing she’s being looked after.”
“Mum, we never agreed to this!”
“We’re agreeing now. Family looks out for each other.”
“Family? *Really?* Remember when—”
“Enough. I haven’t got time. I’ll book her train tickets and let you know.”
The call ended abruptly. Emily stood in the middle of the kitchen, gripping her phone like it might offer answers. She was stunned by her mother’s audacity—though why should she be surprised?
Emily had always been the unloved child. When her mother remarried and had Charlotte, six-year-old Emily was thrust into the role of a miniature adult.
“You’re the big sister now—you help with the baby,” her mother insisted. Suddenly, Emily was vacuuming, mopping floors, changing nappies, fetching groceries, entertaining Charlotte, and later, learning to cook. Her stepfather vanished soon after Charlotte was born, leaving the three of them to fend for themselves.
Their mother adored Charlotte, spoiling her rotten. The best sweets? Charlotte’s. New clothes? Charlotte’s pick. Cafés, cinema trips—always Charlotte’s choice. The girl grew up coddled, never lifting a finger at home.
Charlotte left messes everywhere, never cleaned, only demanded and sulked:
“Sophie’s parents got her the new iPhone—I want one too!”
“What’s for dinner? *Leftovers again?* Let’s just order a takeaway.”
“Where are my favourite jeans, Em? You didn’t wash them? What, *I* should? I don’t even know how—why the hell would I?”
“Clean up? No, I’ve got a headache. *You* do it.”
Their mother never argued. When Emily protested, she’d sigh:
“Charlotte’s growing up without a father—it’s hard for her.”
“*I* didn’t have a father either, Mum!”
“I know. But you’re strong. Charlotte’s delicate, like a flower. She needs more care.”
Their mother blew her entire salary—and took out loans—on Charlotte’s whims. When Emily needed new trainers or a coat, she was told to hunt for sales or buy second-hand. No one ever asked how school was, how Emily *was*.
Fed up with the injustice, Emily swore to escape as soon as she could. She studied relentlessly, pulled all-nighters, took odd jobs: flyering, freelance writing, courier work. The pay was pitiful, but every pound went into a battered biscuit tin hidden on her wardrobe’s top shelf.
One evening, exhausted from hours flyering in biting wind, fingers numb, she opened the tin—and nearly screamed. It was empty.
“Charlotte! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Charlotte mumbled through a mouthful of crisps.
“From my tin!”
“Oh, that spare change? Yeah, I took it. Needed to pay for a delivery—new clothes and trainers. Mum didn’t leave me any cash. Oh, and I got sushi.”
“You *stole* it! That was my savings!”
“Stole? *Please.* It was barely anything. Can’t you help your own sister?”
“If it was something important, fine! But *sushi* and *your* rubbish? Look at what *I* wear!”
“So buy your own stuff! Who’s stopping you? Why are you shouting?”
Emily locked herself in her room and sobbed.
That night, their mother stormed in:
“How *dare* you guilt-trip Charlotte over money? So she took some—big deal!”
“Mum, she blew it all on takeaways and clothes she didn’t need!”
“And? We’re *family*, Emily! Shame on you for being so selfish!”
“Selfish? What about *her* stealing?”
“She’s just a kid! *You* should know better.”
“And who understands *me?*”
“Enough whinging! Go wash the dishes.”
Emily aced her exams and won a place studying economics at a top university. Student halls were cramped, but freedom tasted sweet. She studied, explored museums with friends, worked part-time in cafés and shops. Hardship had taught her resilience.
Her mother and Charlotte showed no interest—except for demands: “Charlotte’s birthday’s coming—don’t forget to call.” Emily transferred money, and that was that.
By her final year, she’d landed a well-paid accounting job. Her mother, hearing of it, suddenly called often, fishing for handouts. Emily sent small sums but saved fiercely—she and Anton were scraping together a mortgage deposit.
They married quietly, bought a modest one-bed flat. Anton’s parents attended; her mother and Charlotte declined:
“Oh, Emily, why should we? It’s just a registry office do. You’re not even wearing a proper dress! And train fares cost a fortune.”
“Mum, this matters to me. You always say family sticks together.”
“Can’t. Taking Charlotte to a spa break. Money’s tight.”
Two years later, her mother announced Charlotte would move in for uni. No asking—just decreeing it. The flat had no space, and Emily had no desire to host her. Yet guilt gnawed: *If not with us, where?* Halls were grim.
Anton reluctantly agreed—temporarily.
Charlotte arrived that evening and sneered:
“God, what a *dump*. Couldn’t you get somewhere closer to town? How am I supposed to commute?”
“Hello to you too,” Emily said flatly. “Take your shoes off, wash your hands, dinner’s ready.”
“This flat’s a shoebox,” Charlotte sniffed, surveying the room. “Like a prison cell.”
“Feel free to rent a penthouse.”
“Give me the money and I will. You know Mum’s broke.”
“You’re sleeping there.” Emily pointed to the inflatable mattress. “Your crap goes on the shelf.”
“On the *floor*? Some hospitality.”
“Not this time. I warned you—no space.”
“Yeah, whatever…”
With Charlotte there, Emily felt trapped in childhood again. Her sister left messes, never lifted a finger, devoured meals Emily or Anton cooked, then vanished with friends. Bills soared—Charlotte wasted utilities, never chipped in for groceries. Their mother only cared if Charlotte was fed and warm in their “dingy little hovel.”
One morning, Anton frowned:
“Em, did you take cash from the tin? I got paid in notes—hadn’t banked it yet.”
“What? No.”
“Odd. Where is it, then?”
“How much?”
“Nearly two grand. Three months’ mortgage.”
The tin… the money… Emily’s blood ran cold.
“Wait!” She flung her spoon down and stormed into Charlotte’s room. “Did you take it? Wake up!”
“Jesus, what’s your problem?”
“Charlotte, did you take money from the tin?”
“Yeah, so? What of it?”
“Where is it? Give it back *now*.”
“Gone. Spent it. Money’s meant to be *used*, not hoarded.”
“On *what*? That’s a fortune!”
“A proper phone. Sick of that brick you gave me.”
“You *thieving* little—”
“I *borrowed* it! Mum always says family helps each other.”
Emily was shaking. They’d miss mortgage payments now. She rang her mother, who dismissed it:
“So she took it—so what? Kids want nice things. I can’t afford them. You *owed* her.”
Emily hung up—the last time they’d ever speak. That evening, she dumped Charlotte’s suitcase in the hall and said icily:
“Get out. And don’t *ever* call me again.”
Charlotte begged, sobbing about having nowhere to go, but Emily slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
Then she laughed—giddy with relief. She was finally free of the family that had never loved her.
***
Mary
Mary had always been wild, messy, and hopeless. Her mother knew it, enforcing strict rules, but even then, chaos reigned.
Every other girl was ladylike. But *this* one…
Each morning, her mother plaited Mary’s unruly hair into a tight braid with ribbons, turning her eyes sly as a fox’s. Neat dress, starched pinafore, lace-trimmed socks. Collar and cuffs sewn perfectly—after two attempts under maternal scrutiny.She would never be the perfect daughter, but at least she was free to be herself.
