Blood Ties That Never Were
The telephone shattered the quiet of the small flat in the sleepy town of Guildford, just outside London. Elizabeth, rubbing her eyes, picked up the call.
“But Emma’s a doctor!” Her mother’s voice trembled with insistence.
“So?” Elizabeth replied coolly.
“A doctor isn’t just a job—it’s a calling!” her mother declared, as though revealing a great truth.
“Fine, a calling,” Elizabeth fired back. “But why should you care about Emma now when you ignored her for twenty-five years?”
“She’s a doctor—she has to help!” the woman persisted.
*Who owes nothing, pays nothing*, Elizabeth thought bitterly, though she didn’t feel like laughing. Jokes about family were pointless, especially when you had no family to speak of. Elizabeth and her daughter, Emma, had been on their own—until the moment Emma, once dismissed as “that unwanted child,” graduated from medical school in London.
Then, like shadows creeping in at dusk, the relatives emerged from nowhere. Aunt Margaret, who had once turned her back on her pregnant niece, now cooed, “How wonderful to have a doctor in the family!”
“I’ve been meaning to get my kidneys checked,” chimed in Uncle George, the same man who had once dismissed his sister’s pleas for help with a sneering, “You made your bed—now lie in it.”
Even Elizabeth’s own mother, who had once disowned her, now called with sickening sweetness.
Twenty-three years ago, Elizabeth had been left utterly alone. Her lover, Robert, had abandoned her the moment he learned of her pregnancy. In films, men rejoiced at the sight of two lines on a test—but life was crueller. She had met him in the café where she worked as a waitress, having fled to London with a business degree and big dreams. Back in her village near York, her skills had been useless—anyone could milk cows. The local farmhand, a man named Higgins, had eyed her, but she wanted more. She had rushed to the city, counting on her Uncle Peter’s help.
“I’ve come straight from the station!” she had beamed, holding out a jar of blackberry jam and a bottle of fresh milk.
Her uncle took the gifts but cut her off: “This isn’t the countryside—space is tight here. Try a hostel; it’s cheap enough.”
Stunned, Elizabeth left without even a cup of tea. In desperation, she wandered into the first café she saw, where a sign read, *Dishwashers needed*. The owner, noticing her distress, offered her a cot in the storeroom in exchange for half-wages as a night watchman. She accepted. Humiliating? Yes. But what choice did she have?
Then she met Robert. He was a courier, a regular at the café. Handsome, with strong hands, he seemed steady. Elizabeth, plain-faced but bright-eyed, felt wanted for the first time. When he suggested moving in together, she ignored her mother’s warnings and said yes. Love had blinded her. Five months of bliss—then she fell pregnant.
Robert erupted. “I’m not ready for this!” he shouted before slamming the door behind her. In tears, she called her mother.
“Mum, I’m pregnant. Please… help me.”
“Got yourself in trouble, have you?” came the icy reply. “We don’t tolerate that in this family. Sort it out yourself.”
Uncle Peter was no kinder. “Bloody hell, girl! We’ve got our own to worry about!”
Abandoned, Elizabeth faced motherhood alone. The café’s storeroom was no longer hers—another girl had taken it. But the owner, kindhearted, sent her to her grandmother, an eighty-six-year-old woman still sharp as a tack.
“Look after her,” the woman said. “No rent, just cover the bills.”
Elizabeth wept with gratitude. A new life began. The old woman helped with baby Emma, cooked when exhaustion overwhelmed her. Those years were hard. Twice, Elizabeth begged family for money—Emma’s allergy-induced bronchitis demanded costly medicine. No one helped. The café owner lent her the funds instead.
Years passed. The grandmother died. Elizabeth returned to the café, then trained as an office manager, working evenings as a dishwasher to give Emma a better life. She scraped together enough for a cramped flat on London’s outskirts. Love was a closed chapter—she trusted no man again. Emma grew up, graduated top of her class, and landed a job at a private clinic.
Then the relatives resurrected. Emma, ever hopeful, wanted to meet her grandmother, who had since moved to London. Elizabeth warned her: “Don’t wake a sleeping devil.” But Emma went. She returned changed—her grandmother had called her *brilliant*, *beautiful*, insisted they’d never been abandoned, merely “unlucky in timing.” Now, family would mend!
Elizabeth knew better. The phone rang nonstop.
“I need a cardiologist!” Uncle George demanded.
“And me—an endocrinologist!” Aunt Margaret echoed.
“Fix it for free!” her grandmother snapped. “You owe us!”
Emma, flustered, tried explaining: “It’s private! I can’t just—”
“Make it happen!” The line went dead.
Emma regretted going. They’d been fine without family! But the calls kept coming, so Elizabeth took charge. When she stopped answering, the relatives stormed the clinic. Uncle George, his wife, and the grandmother marched in at dawn, clutching sample jars, demanding free tests.
The receptionist called Emma: “Dr. Bennett, your family’s causing a scene!”
“Remove them,” Emma said firmly. “They won’t listen.”
Security escorted the trio out, their furious texts flooding Emma’s phone. But she exhaled in relief—these weren’t family. Just strangers.
Shame gnawed at her. She was new here—would this ruin her? To her surprise, the senior doctors praised her resolve.
“Standing firm like that?” they murmured. “She’ll go far.”
The relatives vanished. Elizabeth and Emma carried on as they always had—relying only on each other. Being a doctor demanded an open heart, but hearts should only be given to those who wouldn’t break them. As for family who only remembered you when they needed something? Wish them health. And enough money for private care—it doesn’t come cheap.
