**Just the Way of Things**
Emily hurried home. The slushy snow still held patches of stubborn ice beneath, making every step treacherous. Puddles dotted the road, and passing cars sent muddy sprays over unsuspecting pedestrians. She stuck close to the buildings, avoiding the pavement’s edge.
By the time she reached her flat, her back was damp with sweat, her feet ached, and her socks were soaked. She really ought to buy new boots soon.
Breathless, she dropped onto the hallway stool, peeling off her damp shoes and wiggling her toes inside soggy tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would do her good—ward off a cold. She barely had time to prop her boots by the radiator when a rhythmic tapping echoed through the wall. Her mother’s way of summoning her—a spoon against the plaster. Emily sighed and went in.
*Yes, Mum?*
Her mother only mumbled in response.
*I was at work.* Emily straightened the tangled bedsheet, the sharp scent of urine hitting her. The nappy needed changing. She fetched a fresh one from the bedside pack, holding her breath against the stale ammonia smell as she worked. All the while, her mother groaned, unable to form words.
*There. I’ll make dinner now.* Emily scooped up the soiled nappy and left, ignoring the muffled protests. She’d learned not to complain—what was the point? It wouldn’t change anything, only sour her own mood. She longed for a moment’s rest, but luxury like that didn’t exist. Her mother tapped again.
Once, they’d been a normal family. Her father chaired a university department; her mother stayed home, waiting for him. Then, in a single day, everything crumbled. Emily was midway through Sixth Form, her brother David finishing his third year at uni, when their father died.
A disgruntled applicant’s mother had tried bribing him for a place. He’d refused—always principled, never abused his position. Spiteful, she accused him of taking the money anyway. An investigation began. His heart gave out on the way to hospital.
Mum never recovered. She slipped into grief, then delusion—sitting for hours, staring blankly, then suddenly cooking meals as if Dad would walk in. She forgot Emily and David existed, mistook Emily for the old cleaner, Nancy.
Savings vanished fast—Mum had never been frugal. She’d loved finery, and Dad indulged her. Now Emily kept house, scraping by on her nursery wages, while David swore he’d help after graduation.
He didn’t.
Moved to London, forgot his promises. When Emily begged for help hiring a carer, he claimed he was struggling too. Their relationship had always been strained—David was the golden child, tall and handsome. Emily? Plain, sickly, resembling Dad. Mum’s disappointment was palpable.
Only Dad had ever praised her—for her piano playing. She’d practiced for hours, just to earn his pat on the head. Without him, she was invisible.
One winter, Mum wandered out in her fur coat and remaining jewellery, convinced she’d buy gifts for Dad and David. By dusk, Emily found her half-frozen in the park, robbed and left for dead. She survived, but her mind didn’t.
Years passed. Mum worsened. David rarely visited. When he did, he wrinkled his nose.
*It reeks. You’re neglecting her.*
Emily snapped. *Take her, then. Let your wife care for her.*
He lasted minutes in her room before fleeing.
*She doesn’t even know me. Put her in a home. You’ll ruin your own life.*
*She adored you!* Emily shouted.
*She’s a vegetable. Look at you—when did you last get your hair done? You’re a musician with hands like a labourer’s.*
She scoffed. *How many times did I ask for help? You stole her jewellery instead.*
His smirk faded. He wanted the flat—claimed his family needed space. Offered her a smaller one in exchange. “Or I’ll sue,” he said.
Exhausted, she agreed.
The new place was a disgrace—cramped, noisy, stifling in summer, freezing in winter. Mum died there. David didn’t come to the funeral. “Just had a baby,” he said.
A colleague suggested a holiday—family in Cornwall had a spare room. Emily went, savouring the sea air. One day, she helped a stranded woman in a wheelchair. Her son, Michael, walked Emily home.
His mother hinted. *He likes you. Stay?*
For days, baskets of fruit appeared on the step. But after helping Michael at the market—back-breaking work—she realised: this wasn’t love. Just another person wanting her labour.
She left without goodbye.
Months later, David called. *I’ve had an accident. Can’t walk. Take me in.*
She laughed coldly. *Remember the home you wanted Mum in? The jewellery you stole? The flat you swindled me for? Ask your family.*
Guilt gnawed at her on the train home. *No more servitude,* she told herself.
Then fate intervened. A bright, orphaned boy at nursery needed a home. Her colleague suggested fostering—but she’d need a husband. A paper marriage to her colleague’s brother was arranged.
Over time, pretence became real. A daughter followed. Emily, at last, had a family of her own.
David? He was sent to a care home. Some fates can’t be mended.
