It was just fate.
Emily hurried home, dodging treacherous patches of ice lurking beneath the melting snow. Her feet slipped, making the walk even more miserable. Puddles lined the road, and passing cars splashed muddy water onto unsuspecting pedestrians. She kept well away from the kerb.
By the time she reached her flat, her back was damp with sweat, her feet ached, and her boots were sodden. It was high time she bought a new pair.
Exhausted, she dropped onto the hallway stool, peeled off her wet boots, and wriggled her toes in damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would be perfect right now—ward off a cold before it started. But before she could set her boots by the radiator, a sharp knock came from the wall. Mum’s signal—a spoon against the plaster. Emily sighed and headed to her mother’s room.
*What is it, Mum?*
Her mother mumbled something incoherent.
*I’ve been at work.* Emily adjusted the blanket slipping off the bed, wrinkled her nose at the sour tang of urine. *Nappy’s full.*
A fresh nappy waited in the bedside packet. Emily steeled herself, peeled back the blanket, and swapped it out, fighting down nausea at the pungent smell. All the while, her mother grunted—words had long since failed her.
*Done. I’ll make dinner and feed you in a bit.* Emily scooped up the heavy, soaked nappy and left, ignoring her mother’s noises. She’d trained herself not to complain—what was the point? It wouldn’t change anything, only make her feel worse. A moment’s rest would be lovely, but luxury wasn’t an option. The spoon rapped against the wall again.
Once, they’d been a normal family. Dad chaired a university department, Mum stayed home with the kids, waiting for him. Then, in an instant, everything crumbled. Emily had just finished Year 11; her brother, James, had passed his second-year uni exams when Dad died.
A parent of an applicant had tried bribing him—her son deserved a funded place. Dad led the admissions committee. Honest to a fault, he refused. Spiteful, the woman accused him of taking money anyway. An investigation followed. The stress was too much—his heart gave out before he reached the hospital.
Mum never recovered. She drifted into her own world, barely noticing Emily or James, sitting for hours, staring blankly. Then she’d start cooking dinner, still expecting Dad home.
A young woman, Natalie, used to come twice a week to clean and shop—Mum wouldn’t eat supermarket meat or veg. After Dad died, Natalie had to go. Without his salary, savings dwindled fast. Mum had never been frugal—always buying herself dresses and jewellery. Beautiful, she’d been spoiled.
Dad’s colleagues used to visit often. Even now, Mum commanded Emily to set a lavish table, dressing up as if guests were coming. Then she’d forget, berating Emily for cooking too much. School was Emily’s only respite. But even that had to go.
James was the one who suggested she work. *If I drop out of uni, they’ll draft me into the army—I’ll be useless to you. But if I graduate, I’ll get a job and help out.*
At the time, it made sense. Emily quit school and found work. She’d attended music college, showed promise. A nursery hired her to lead sing-alongs—the pay was dismal, but at least she could check on Mum during the children’s nap time. Most of her wages went on rent and Mum’s medication.
Once James graduated, he moved to London. His promises of help vanished. When Emily begged for money for a carer, he claimed he could barely afford his own rent.
They’d never been close. James got all the looks—dark hair, expressive eyes, tall, striking. Mum adored him. Emily? She was born late—Mum was over forty, reluctant even to keep her. Sickly, plain, grey-eyed like Dad, with thin hair and ears that stuck out.
Only Dad had ever praised her, encouraging her piano practice. Dad was gone now. Mum treated her like hired help.
James visited rarely. Once, after he left, Emily peeked in Mum’s jewellery box, hoping to pawn a small ring. Most of it was gone. She knew James had taken it, but Mum blamed her, screaming threats to call the police.
Emily rang James. *No idea what you’re on about*, he said, hanging up. She told Mum she’d sold some to pay bills. Mum screeched but dropped it—she’d never believe her golden boy a thief.
One winter, Mum draped herself in the remaining gold, put on her fur coat, and went shopping—it was nearly Christmas, she needed gifts for Dad and James. Emily found her freezing in the park after dark—mugged, left for dead. Mum survived, but the shock crippled her mind. She barely spoke, forgot everything, soiled herself.
Time worsened her condition. Emily cared for her alone. Then James appeared, wrinkling his nose at the flat’s smell.
*You’re neglecting her.*
She snapped. *Take her, then. Let your wife look after her.*
By then, James had a family—a son, another on the way. He stepped into Mum’s room, then bolted.
*She doesn’t recognise me. It’s unbearable. Put her in a home.*
*She worshipped you!* Emily shouted.
*She’s a vegetable. You’ll lose your mind like this. Get married, have kids—look at you! When did you last get your hair done? You’re a musician, but your hands are rough as a farmer’s.*
*How many times did I beg you for carer money? Instead, you stole! Come for the rest? It’s all gone. Take what you want and leave.*
James didn’t argue. He had an offer: sell the flat. *You keep a smaller one. I’ll cover the costs. I’m entitled to my share.*
*What about Mum?*
*She’ll die soon. A home’s better.*
Emily agreed—exhausted. James gushed about the replacement flat: *Great area, near a park, bright, spacious kitchen…*
She should’ve inspected it first. But she was too tired. The flat was a nightmare—narrow, noisy, filthy.
*You’d be in a bedsit if not for me*, James sniffed, leaving.
Emily slept on the kitchen fold-out. The top-floor flat was an oven in summer, freezing in winter. Mum suffered. Emily considered a home but doubted they’d take her. Three months later, Mum died. Relief mingled with grief. James skipped the funeral—*Wife just gave birth*. Emily borrowed money from colleagues, buried her alone.
A coworker suggested a holiday—relatives in Cornwall had a spare room. Emily went, revelling in sea air and freedom. One day, she helped a wheelchair-bound woman stuck in the sand, escorting her home.
Over tea, the woman’s son, Michael, arrived. He walked Emily back. *It’s not safe after dark.* He asked her to visit, take his mother on walks.
*My son likes you*, the woman said later. *Stay. We’ve a big house, garden. His wife left him for a holidaymaker. You’ve helped him heal.*
Michael left baskets of fruit on the doorstep—his shy courtship.
Emily nearly said yes. She wanted love, children. Then Michael asked her to help sell produce at the market. Standing all day in the sun, then cooking, watering plants—exhausted, she realised: *We don’t love each other. Is this my life? Slaving in a garden, cooking, cleaning?*
She left at dawn, thanking Michael’s mother.
Back home, she knew she’d made the right choice. *No more servitude.*
Months passed. Then James called. *I’m in hospital—car crash. Can you come?*
*Thank God*, he said when she arrived. *My wife left me—I can’t walk. Take me in.*
*Where? My shoebox flat? Where Mum died? Remember when you wanted her in a home? Stole her jewellery? Refused to help? Sold our home and dumped me in this dump? How dare you?*
*Please. I’ve nowhere else.*
*Your tears never moved me. Why should yours move me?*
On the train home, guilt gnawed at her. *No. No more servitude.*
Later, a boy at her nursery lost his parents. No relatives. The head suggested fostering—but Emily needed a husband. The head’s brother agreed to a fake marriage.
It became real. Nine months later, Emily had a daughter. A loving family at last.
James? He went to a care home.
