The house felt like a fever dream, walls bending as Nina swayed in the doorway. The thermometer blinked 102. Her throat burned, lungs crackled like wet kindling.
“Mum! Wheres breakfast?” Emily barged in without knocking, schoolbag swinging. “Ill miss the bus!”
Nina tried to sit up. The room spun. “Im ill, love. Grab something from the fridge.”
“Theres nothing! Just Annabelles yoghurts!” Emily crossed her arms. “Its always about her!”
A wail pierced the silence. Annabelle, awake. Nina forced herself upright, knees buckling as she stumbled to the nursery.
“Jenny, my striped shirtwhere is it?” Mark emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low. “The blue one?”
“Check the wardrobe,” Nina rasped.
“Its not there! Did you iron it yesterday?”
She leaned against the wall. Yesterday shed been delirious with fever, tending to the toddler.
“No. Didnt have time.”
“Brilliant! Ive got a bloody board meeting!” The bathroom door slammed.
Annabelles cries climbed higher. Nina lifted her, the childs hot cheek pressing into her collarbone.
“Mum!” Emilys shout from the kitchen. “Theres no bread! Nothing!”
“Moneys on the table. Buy something on your way.”
“I cant pop into Tesco! Ive got mock exams! And since when is feeding us *my* job?”
Nina shuffled to the kitchen, Annabelle on her hip. Frozen bangers hit the frying pan.
“And pasta!” Emily commanded, eyes glued to her phone.
Mark emerged, shirt crumpled. “Had to wear this one. Look like a proper dosser. Cheers for that.”
Nina said nothing. Words took too much effort.
“Sophies birthday partys tonight,” Emily announced, heaping pasta onto her plate. “Ill be back late.”
“Em, Im really poorly. Could you stay? Help with your sister?”
“As if! Ive waited months for this! Didnt exactly *ask* for a sibling, did I?” The front door thundered shut.
Mark scrolled through football news, fork clinking.
“Mark, could you come home early? I feel awful.”
“Cant. Work drinks after. Priorities, yeah?”
“But Im”
“Take paracetamol or summat. Youre not bedridden.” A perfunctory kiss on her sweaty temple, and he was gone.
Alone with Annabelle, Nina moved through the day like a ghost. The toddler demanded snacks, play, comfort. By lunch, the fever hit 103. She fed the child, tucked her in, collapsed on the sofa. Her skull pulsed.
Her phone buzzed. Emily: *Mum send £20 for Sophies gift NOW!!!*
Nina didnt reply.
Mark returned first, tipsy, carrying a bag of lager and crisps. “Match is on!” He flopped onto the sofa, telly blaring.
“Mark, feed Annabelle. I cant get up.”
“That bad?” He finally looked at her. “Christ, youre red as a postbox.”
“Fever all day”
“Ring 111 if its dire. Wheres the ankle-biter?”
“Asleep. Shell wake soon.”
Thirty minutes later, Annabelle wailed. Mark hoisted her awkwardly. “Stop squawking! Heres Daddy!”
But she reached for Nina, screams escalating.
“Jen, she wants you!”
“Biscuits in the cupboard. Juice in the fridge.”
“Where? Cant find anything!”
She dragged herself up. The walls lurched. Biscuit crumbs scattered as Annabelle quieted.
Emily returned past midnight. Nina lay awake, fever throbbing.
“You ignored my text!” Emily hissed. “Had to borrow cash from Sophies mum! So embarrassing!”
“Em, Ive been at deaths door”
“Takes two seconds to text back!”
Morning came with Mark shaking her. “Jen! Up! Ive got work, and the tots losing it!”
The fever broke, but exhaustion remained. Nina dressed Annabelle.
“Breakfast?” Mark asked.
“Do it yourself. Im taking her to nursery.”
“*Me*? Cant cook! No time!”
“Youll learn.” Her tone froze him. He muttered, stomped to the kitchen.
Returning later, Nina found chaos: dirty plates, crumpled shirts, unmade beds. Usually, shed clean. Not today.
Dinner found them at an empty table.
“Mum, whats for tea?” Emily asked.
“Dunno. What you make is what you eat.”
“*What*?”
“Exactly that. Im only cooking for me and Annabelle now.”
Mark gaped. “The hells got into you?”
“In this family, everyone fends for themselves. So get on with it.”
“Jen, love” He reached for her. She stepped back.
“Im knackered being your skivvy! Yesterday proved itIm just free staff to you lot.”
“Mum, I *said* sorry!” Emily lied.
“No, you didnt. Neither did Dad. Not even a *how are you feeling*.”
“*Sorry*, then!” Emily huffed. “We supposed to starve?”
“Fridge is full. Hands work. Cook.”
The first week was war. Emily threw tantrums; Mark sulked. Nina held firm. She cooked only for herself and Annabelle, washed only their clothes.
“Mum, my jeans are filthy!” Emily wailed.
“Washing machines there. Persils under the sink.”
“I dont *know* how!”
“Learn. Instructions are on the lid.”
Mark wore wrinkled shirts, ate at pubs. Their savings dwindled.
“Jen, this is madness! Spending a tenner daily on takeaways!”
“Cook at home. Cheaper.”
“*Cant*.”
“YouTube it. Millions of recipes.”
The flat descended into squalor: crusted dishes, dusty floors. Nina kept only the nursery tidy.
Two weeks in, Emily attempted pasta. Forgot salt, overcooked itmush.
“Mum, *help*!”
“No. Learn.”
“Youre my *mother*! Youre *supposed* to”
“My jobs under-18s. Cooking you gourmet meals isnt in the contract. Bread, milk, cerealyou wont starve.”
Mark tried scrambled eggs. Burnt them. Tried againedible.
“Look, Jen! I made eggs!”
Nina nodded, turned a page. No praise.
By week three, the flat resembled a student digs. Emily sobbed over a laundry mountain.
“Mum, *please*! Ive got nothing clean for school!”
“You were home all yesterday. Couldve washed them.”
“I had *revision*!”
“And I work remotely, cook, clean after Annabelle. Still manage.”
“Youre the *adult*!”
“And you want adult *privileges*? Late nights, cash for outings? Then act like one.”
By months end, they cracked. Emily learned to wash, cook basics. Mark mastered pasta, even a simple soup.
One evening, Nina returned from the park to a set table, dinner smells. Mark and Emily stood sheepishly.
“Mum, we made tea,” Emily murmured. “I did salad. Dad roasted a chicken.”
“Ta,” Nina said evenly.
“Mum were sorry,” Emily whispered. “Didnt realise how hard it is.”
“Jen, well do better,” Mark added. “Swear.”
Nina studied them. They hadnt magically changed. But fearof losing the woman who did everythinghad sunk in.
Now they knew: cross the line, and Mum might not cave. Might leave them drowning in filth.
“Alright,” she said. “But remember. Im not staff. Im family. Treat me like it.”
“We get it,” Emily said. “Really.”
Dinner was quiet. But Emily cleared the table. Mark washed up. Small things. But to Ninaa victory.
That night, tucking Annabelle in, she whispered:
“Youll grow up different. Independent. Wont think the world owes you. And youll marry someone who bloody well loads a dishwasher.”
Annabelle hugged her, sleepy. In the bedroom, Mark waited with tea.
“Here. Honey, like you like.”
“Ta.”
“Jen were you really going to leave?”
She sipped. “Wouldnt leave. But wouldnt live like before. Im a person. Not a servant.”
“We understand now.”
“Well see,” she said. “Time tells.”
And it did. No, they werent perfect. Emily still forgot dishes; Mark left shirts crumpled. But the shift was real.
Now they saw Nina
