“People are starving, and you’re buying flats!” her mother shrieked.
“Emma and Sophie will each get a two-bedroom, and James gets the three-bed. He promised to look after us in our old age,” said George Wilson, staring out the window as snowflakes drifted down.
Irene Wilson nodded quietly, flipping through an old photo album. Faded pictures showed her smiling children—little Emma with her hair in bows, James in ripped jeans, and tiny Sophie, covered in sand from the playground.
George sat beside her, placing his hand over hers. “It’s fair. It’s the right thing.”
They didn’t know it would be their last conversation. A week later, George passed peacefully in his sleep. He just never woke up.
Emma found out about her father’s death on her way to work. Her mother called, voice trembling. “Emma… Dad’s gone.”
Everything froze. How? They’d just celebrated his birthday.
At the funeral, Emma stayed strong. She helped her mother, hugged Sophie, tried to reason with James, who wandered around hollow-eyed. Afterward, she took charge—groceries, bills, checking on Mum.
“James, how long are you going to mope? You’re 25!” Emma snapped.
“Back off. Don’t tell me how to live,” he muttered.
“Mum lives on her pension! Sophie’s still in uni. And you?”
“None of your business,” he said, turning to the wall.
Mum stayed silent. To her, James would always be her “little boy.”
Six months later, Irene called Emma in. “James is in trouble… He’s in debt. I’ve decided to sell the flats… both of them.”
“What flats?! Dad saved those for me and Sophie!”
“They’re in my name. You’ll marry well. But James needs to settle down soon.”
“Mum… are you serious?”
“It’s decided,” her mother said sharply.
Emma walked out into the rain, puddles, falling leaves. She sat on a bench. Her friend Sarah took her in. Emma lived out of boxes, sorting mortgage papers, listening to the neighbours’ cats or the lift groaning at 3 a.m.
Meanwhile, Mum kept calling. “James lost his job. They’ve got no food. Help us.”
“I can’t! I’ve got a mortgage, Mum!”
“You’re buying flats while your family starves?!”
Then Sophie arrived one day, crying. “Mum wants me to quit uni and work. I can’t do it.”
“Move in with me,” Emma said.
They rented a one-bed flat. Sophie finished her degree, married a man from a good family. They lived happily together.
Mum didn’t come to the wedding.
The calls started again. “James is having a baby. They’re struggling. I’ll give him my pension—can I move in with you?”
“No, Mum. I’m done with this.”
“So you’ll leave your mother homeless?!”
Emma changed her number. Only Sophie got the new one.
Months passed. Emma got her mortgage, adopted a ginger cat. Life settled. Sophie visited, called. Then the news—”I’m pregnant!”
Soon, a boy was born. They named him George, after their dad.
One day, a letter arrived in Mum’s handwriting.
“Forgive me… I was wrong. Jack’s got a job now. I’ve a granddaughter. And you were right. Love should be fair.”
Emma wiped her tears, then sat at the kitchen table.
“I’ll write back,” she told Sophie. “She should know… I don’t hold grudges.”
