“Close Quarters, No Hard Feelings”
“Emily, it’s not the end of the world—just make a little space. She’s your sister, after all,” Mum’s voice was steel-clad, brooking no argument.
“Mum, what do you mean ‘make space’? This is *our* flat, mine and Adam’s! Where exactly are we supposed to squeeze her in?” Emily barely held back her fury.
“And what, she’s supposed to live in that grimy student hall? We can’t afford rent—have you seen the prices? It’s settled: Lily’s moving in with you. I’ll sleep easier knowing she’s looked after.”
“Mum, that wasn’t the deal!”
“It is now. Family helps family.”
“Family? Seriously? Remember when *you*—”
“Enough. No time for this. I’ll book her train ticket and let you know.”
The call died. Emily stood in the kitchen, gripping her phone like it might cough up answers. She was stunned by Mum’s audacity—though why should she be?
Emily had always been the unloved one. When Mum remarried and had Lily, six-year-old Emily was forced to grow up overnight.
“You’re the big sister now—help with the baby,” Mum would say. And so the chores piled up: vacuuming, mopping, nappy changes, grocery runs, entertaining Lily, then later, learning to cook. Stepdad vanished shortly after Lily’s birth, leaving the three of them behind.
Mum adored Lily, spoiling her rotten. The best sweet? Lily’s. New clothes? Lily’s. Cafés and cinema trips? Whatever Lily fancied. The girl grew up coddled, never lifting a finger at home.
Lily left messes everywhere, never cleaned, only demanded:
“Jen’s parents bought her the new iPhone—*I* want one!”
“What’s for dinner? Leftovers *again*? Let’s just order pizza!”
“Where’s my favourite jeans? Em, you didn’t wash them? *I* should? I don’t know how, why would I?”
“Clean? No, I’ve got a headache. *You* do it.”
Mum never argued. When Emily tried, she’d hear:
“Lily’s growing up without a father—it’s hard.”
“I didn’t *have* a father either, Mum!”
“I know. But you’re strong. Lily’s delicate, like a flower. She needs more care.”
Mum blew her entire salary on Lily, took out loans for her whims. When Emily needed new trainers or a coat, Mum would snap, “Try the sales—or get secondhand.” She never asked how Emily was doing in school, what she cared about.
Emily swore she’d escape that house. She studied relentlessly, aced her exams, took any job—flyering, freelance writing, courier work. She stashed every pound in a biscuit tin hidden on the top shelf.
One evening, after a gruelling shift handing out leaflets in the freezing wind, she opened the tin—and nearly choked. Empty.
“Lily! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Lily mumbled through a mouthful of crisps.
“From my tin!”
“Oh, *that* chump change? Yeah, I took it. Needed to pay for delivery—new clothes and trainers. Mum didn’t leave me cash. Oh, and pizza.”
“Are you *mad*? That was *my* savings! Who said you could—”
“It was pennies! Scrimping over your own sister?”
“If it was something important, fine! But pizza and *clothes*? Look at what *I* wear!”
“Then buy your own! Why’re you shouting?”
Emily locked herself in her room and sobbed.
Mum came home and screeched:
“How *dare* you guilt Lily over money? So she took some—big deal!”
“Mum, she blew it on pizza and *outfits*!”
“You’re *selfish*! Family sticks together!”
“And who sticks up for *me*?”
“Stop whining! Go wash the dishes!”
Emily aced her A-levels, got into a top uni’s economics programme. A dorm room set her free—studying, friends, museum trips on student passes, part-time jobs. Her childhood had taught her to work hard.
Mum and Lily barely called. Only reminders: “Lily’s birthday’s coming—don’t forget.” Emily would transfer cash, and that was that.
By final year, Emily landed an accounting assistant role with decent pay. Suddenly, Mum called more, hinting at “help.” Emily sent small amounts, but she and Adam were saving for a mortgage.
They married quietly, bought a one-bed flat. Only close family came. Adam’s parents attended; Mum and Lily refused:
“Oh, Em, why bother? It’s just paperwork. You’re not even in a dress! And train fares are *so* dear.”
“*Mum*, it’s my wedding day. *You* say family matters.”
“Can’t. Taking Lily to her spa retreat. Skint.”
Two years later, Mum declared Lily would live with them during uni. No asking—just telling. No space, no desire, but a flicker of guilt: if not here, where? Student halls were dismal.
Adam reluctantly agreed—temporarily.
Lily arrived and sneered:
“God, what a *dump*. Couldn’t afford somewhere *central*? How am I supposed to get to lectures?”
“Hello,” Emily said flatly. “Take your shoes off, wash your hands, dinner’s ready.”
“Your flat’s *tiny*,” Lily wrinkled her nose. “Like a shoebox.”
“Feel free to rent a *palace* in Mayfair,” Emily snapped.
“Give me the money and I will. You *know* how broke we are.”
“You’ll sleep here,” Emily pointed to the inflatable mattress. “Stuff goes on the shelf.”
“On the *floor*? Some hospitality.”
“Not this time, Lil. I warned you—no space.”
“Whatever…”
With Lily there, Emily relived her childhood. Clothes strewn everywhere, dirty dishes piled up, no help with meals or cleaning. Lily ate their food, went to lectures, came home expecting dinner. Bills skyrocketed—Lily left lights on, taps running, never chipped in. Mum only asked, “What did you cook Lily? Is my *baby* warm enough in that *cupboard*?”
One morning, Adam frowned:
“Em, did you take cash from the tin? I got paid in cash—haven’t banked it yet.”
“What cash? No.”
“Odd. Where’s it gone?”
“How much?”
“Nearly four grand. Three months’ mortgage.”
The *tin*… *money*… Emily understood.
“Wait!” She flung her spoon down, stormed into Lily’s room. “Did you take it? *Wake up*!”
“God, *what*? Let me sleep!”
“Lily. The money in the tin. *Where is it*?”
“Yeah, I took it. So?”
“*Give it back*!”
“Gone. Spent. Money should *work*, not sit there.”
“On *what*? That’s *thousands*!”
“A proper phone. Sick of this brick.”
“You *stole* it! Who said you could—”
“I *borrowed* it! Mum *always* says—family helps family!”
Emily shook. Now they’d miss mortgage payments. She called Mum, who sighed:
“Well, she took it. Kids want nice things. You *could* afford it.”
Emily hung up. Last time she’d ever speak to her. That evening, she shoved Lily’s suitcase into the hallway and said, icy:
“Get out. And don’t call me *sister* again.”
Lily bawled, begged—nowhere to go—but Emily slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.
And then she laughed. *Free*.
—
**Maggie**
Maggie was, from the start, a tornado—unkempt, scatterbrained, relentless. Mum knew it and reined her in tight, but even that didn’t always work.
The other girls? Proper. This one? *Chaos*.
Each morning, Mum wrestled Maggie’s wild curls into a tight plait, threaded with ribbons, turning her eyes sly as a fox’s. Crisp dress, starched pinafore, lace-trimmed socks. Collar and cuffs sewn *just so*—after two attempts under Mum’s glare. Shoes polished to a shine. A *picture*.
By evening? A *wreck*. Socks crumpled, cuffs grass-stained, knees—and forehead—plastered with burrs. Ribbons frayed, plait shredded into a rat’s nest. Hair a riot of tangles, studded with thistles.
Pinafore greasy—Maggie had tucked a sausage roll into it at lunch. Was it her fault she liked reading while eating? Lit class was after”And so, with the slam of a door and the weight of years finally off her shoulders, Emily stepped into a life entirely her own.”
