Just Hold On a Little Longer — Mum, this is for Anna’s next term. Maria placed the envelope on the faded vinyl tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the flat’s front door. Each time, just enough. Ellen laid aside her knitting and looked at her daughter over the top of her glasses. — Mary, you look ever so pale. Tea? — No, Mum. I’m only here for a minute—I’ve got to get to my evening shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought for her mother every month. Forty quid a bottle, lasting three weeks. Plus blood pressure pills, plus quarterly check-ups. — Anna was so pleased about her work placement at the bank—Ellen took the envelope carefully, as though it were fragile glass.—She says there are good prospects. Maria said nothing. — Tell her this is the last money we have for her studies. Final term. For five years, Maria had shouldered it all. Every month—a cash envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand and relentless subtraction: minus bills, minus medication, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s course fees. And what was left for her? A rented bedsit in a shared flat, a winter coat already six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own home. Once, Maria had longed for a weekend in London. Just to see the National Gallery, to wander along the Thames. She’d even started saving—then Mum had her first bad turn, and every penny went on doctors. — You should have a break, love—Ellen stroked her hand.—You look done in. — I’ll rest. Soon. Soon—when Anna gets a job. When Mum’s health settles. When she could actually breathe and think about her own life. Maria had been promising herself “soon” for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—a first, no less. Maria took the day off work and watched her younger sister cross the stage in a new dress—a gift from her, of course—thinking: That’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and finally, Maria could stop counting out every penny. Four months passed. — You don’t get it, Mary—Anna sat on the sofa in fluffy socks.—I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts. — Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. — Maybe not for you. Maria gritted her teeth. Her main job paid forty-two. Overtime and temp work—another twenty, if she was lucky. Sixty-two per annum, and if Maria kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. — Anna, you’re twenty-two. You’ve got to start somewhere. — I will. Just not in some dead-end job for a pittance. Ellen fussed around the kitchen, clattering dishes, pretending to ignore the row. She always did this, hiding away when her daughters argued. Then, when Maria was leaving, she’d whisper: “Don’t be hard on Anna, she’s still young, she doesn’t understand.” She doesn’t understand. Twenty-two—and she doesn’t understand. — I’m not going to live forever, Anna. — Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money. I’m just looking for the right opportunity. Not asking. Technically—not asking. But Mum would. “Mary, Anna needs money for English lessons.” “Mary, Anna’s phone’s broken, she needs it for job applications.” “Mary, Anna needs a new coat before winter.” Maria transferred money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was just the way—she provided, they accepted. — I’m off—she stood up.—Evening shift tonight. — Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!—Mum called from the kitchen. They were filled with cabbage. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold lobby reeking of damp and cats. Ten minutes’ brisk walk to the bus stop. Then an hour’s ride. Eight hours on her feet. If she got home in time, another four hours on the computer for more work. Meanwhile, Anna would be at home, scrolling through job sites, waiting for the universe to present her with a perfect position—£60k and remote working. The first real fight happened in November. — Do you even do anything?—Maria lost her patience when she saw her sister still lounged on the couch.—Sent out your CV at all? — I have. Three times. — Three CVs in a whole month? Anna rolled her eyes, glued to her phone. — You don’t understand today’s job market. The competition’s mad, you’ve got to be selective. — Selective how? You want to be paid for lying on the sofa? Ellen poked her head from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel, anxious. — Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake… — Don’t bother—Maria rubbed her temples. Third day in a row with a headache.—Just tell me why I have to work two jobs and she can get away with none? — Mary, Anna’s still young, she’ll find her path… — When? In a year? Five years? I was already working at her age! Anna sprang up. — Sorry I don’t want to end up like you! Run into the ground, working yourself to death! Silence. Maria wordlessly picked up her bag and left. Watching the rain splatter the bus window, she thought: Run into the ground. That’s what I look like from the outside. Ellen called the next day, begging her not to be upset. — Anna didn’t mean it. She’s worried. Just, please, hold on a little longer—she’ll find a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on, till Dad sorts himself out. Hold on, till Anna grows up. Hold on, till things get better. Maria had held on her whole life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same—Maria trying to reason with her sister, Anna snapping, Ellen pleading for peace. Maria would leave, Ellen would call with apologies, and the cycle would repeat. — You must understand, she’s your sister—Mum would say. — And she must understand I’m not a cash machine. — Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice was bright with excitement. — Mary! I’m getting married! — What? To whom? — His name’s David. We met three weeks ago. He’s just… Mary, he’s perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks and getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, that she barely knew him, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If Anna had a husband, he could support her, and Maria could, at last, breathe. The hope lasted precisely one family dinner. — I’ve got it all planned!—Anna beamed.—Reception for a hundred, live band, and there’s a dress I love, on Regent Street… Maria set down her fork. — How much is all this? — Well—Anna shrugged with that disarming smile.—About twenty grand. Maybe twenty-five. But it’s my wedding! Once in a lifetime! — And who’s paying? — Well, you know… David’s parents can’t help—they have a mortgage. Mum’s on a pension now. You’ll probably have to take out a loan. Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Ellen looked away. — Are you serious? — Mary, it’s a wedding—Mum used her syrupy, persuasive voice.—Once in your life. Don’t be so tight-fisted… — You want me to borrow twenty grand for the wedding of someone who never bothered to get a job? — You’re my sister!—Anna slammed her palm on the table.—It’s your duty! — My duty? Maria stood up. Her mind was suddenly calm and clear. — Five years. Five years I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I have no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. — Mary, don’t get upset…—began Ellen. — No, I’m done! I’ve supported you both for years, and now you want to tell me what I owe you? That’s it. From now on, I’m living for me! She left, just managing to grab her coat. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the chill. Warmth spread within her, as though she’d finally dropped a heavy sack she’d hauled all her life. Her phone was soon buzzing with calls. Maria declined them, blocking both numbers. …Six months later, Maria moved into a tiny place of her own, which she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, bright nights. She bought a new dress. And another. And shoes. She heard about her family by chance—from an old school friend who worked near her mum. — Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was cancelled? Maria froze, coffee mug in hand. — What? — Yeah, apparently her fiancé legged it when he realised there was no money. Maria sipped her coffee. It was bitter and, somehow, delicious. — No idea. We’re not in touch. That evening, Maria sat by the window in her new flat, thinking how she didn’t feel the least bit spiteful. Not at all. Only a gentle, quiet satisfaction—of someone who has finally stopped living life as a workhorse. Just Hold On a Little Longer

Here, Mum, this is for Emilys next term.

Harriet set the envelope gently onto the faded oilcloth that covered the kitchen table. A thousand pounds. Shed counted it three times at home, on the bus, outside the front door. Each time she made sure it was exactly what was needed.

Margaret put down her knitting and gazed at her daughter over her spectacles.

Youre looking peaky, love. Shall I make us some tea?

No, Mum. I cant stay. Ive got to get to my second job in a minute.

The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal maybe the arthritis cream, or the drops Harriet bought for her mother every month. Forty quid for a bottle, lasting just about three weeks. Then the blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups.

Em was over the moon when she found out about the internship at the bank, Margaret said, as she took the envelope with the care one would give to the finest porcelain. She says there are great prospects there.

Harriet said nothing.

Tell her this is the last money for tuition.

The last term. For five years, Harriet had shouldered this burden. Every month an envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every single month calculator in hand, subtracting: minus rent, minus medicines, minus groceries for Mum, minus Emilys uni fees. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat over six years old, and half-forgotten dreams of her own little flat.

Once upon a time, Harriet imagined visiting London just for a weekend. The National Gallery, strolls down the river. She even started saving until that first real health scare of her mums, and all her savings disappeared into the hands of doctors.

You should rest, darling, Margaret soothed, stroking her daughters hand. You look dead on your feet.

Ill get some rest. Soon.

Soon when Emily found a job. When Mum was stable. When it was finally possible to exhale and think of herself. SoonHarriet had whispered that promise for five years.

Emily graduated in June, an economics degree with honours, no less Harriet had begged for time off to attend the ceremony. Shed watched as her younger sister walked onto the stage in a brand new dress a present from Harriet, naturally and had thought: its over now. Everything changes from here. Emily will get a job, shell start earning, and Harriet could finally stop counting every penny.

Four months passed.

You just dont get it, Hattie, Emily said, curled up on the lounge sofa, fluffy socks pulled up to her knees. I didnt slog through five years at uni to grind for peanuts.

Fifteen hundred a month isnt peanuts.

Well, maybe not for you.

Harriet clenched her jaw. She pulled in forty-two hours a week at her main job. The side gig brought in another five hundred, on good months. All told, she made about two grand, if she was lucky and with everything she paid for, she was lucky if she kept four hundred for herself.

Em, youre twenty-two. Its time to start somewhere.

I will. Just not in a dead-end office for that kind of money.

Margaret fussed in the kitchen, clanking crockery pretending, as always, not to hear. She did that whenever the sisters argued vanished into the background, then later would whisper as Harriet was leaving: Dont get cross with Emily, love, shes still young, she doesnt get it.

She doesnt get it. Twenty-two years old and she didnt.

I wont be around forever, Em.

Oh, stop being so dramatic! Not like Im asking you for money. Im just looking for a decent job, thats all.

Not asking, technically. It was Mum asking. Hattie, Emily wants to do a course, she needs to brush up her English. Hattie, Emilys phone is broken and she needs to send her CV out. Hattie, Emily fancies a new coat before winter.

Harriet paid for it all, in silence. Always had. She pulled the weight, and everyone else just seemed to take it for granted.

Ive got to go, she said, getting up. Ive got the late shift tonight.

Ill wrap you up some pasties to take, Margaret called from the kitchen.

They were cabbage pasties. Harriet took the bag and made her way into the chilly, damp-smelling stairwell. Ten brisk minutes to the bus stop. Then an hours ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she wasnt too shattered, another four hours at the laptop.

Meanwhile, Emily would stay at home, scrolling through job listings, waiting for the universe to offer her a dream position: sixty grand a year, remote.

The first real argument happened in November.

Do you actually do anything? Harriet snapped, seeing her sister sprawled on the sofa in exactly the same position as last week. Have you sent even one CV?

I have. Three.

In a month? Three applications?

Emily rolled her eyes and buried herself in her phone.

Youve no clue what the job markets like now. The competitions insane. Youve got to choose the right openings.

Right the ones where you get paid for lying around on the sofa?

Margaret peered nervously out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.

Girls, how about a cuppa? I baked a pie

No thanks, Mum. Harriet pinched her temples. Third day of a splitting headache. Just tell me why I should work two jobs while she doesnt do one?

Hattie, love, Emilys still young. Shell find her place

When, Mum? Next year? Five years? I was working at her age!

Emily shot upright.

Well, sorry I dont want to become you! Running yourself into the ground, working non-stop like some pack horse!

Silence. Harriet grabbed her bag and left. On the bus, watching the night blur by the window, she kept thinking: a pack horse. Thats how she sounded to them.

Margaret rang the next day, asking Harriet not to take it to heart.

She didnt mean it. Shes just… struggling. Please, just hold on a bit longer shell find something soon.

Hold on. Mums favourite saying. Hold on until Dad sorts himself out. Hold on until Emily grows up. Hold on until things improve. Harriet had held on her whole life.

The arguments became routine. Every visit ended the same: Harriet trying to shake sense into her sister, Emily snapping back, Margaret running between them, pleading for peace. Then Harriet would go, Margaret would ring with apologies, and it would all start again.

You have to understand, shes your sister, Mum would say.

And she has to understand Im not a cash machine.

Hattie

In January, Emily phoned herself. There was an odd excitement in her voice.

Hattie! Im getting married!

What? To whom?

His names James. Weve been together three weeks. Hes… hes perfect!

Three weeks. Three weeks and now marriage. Harriet wanted to protest, to point out she hardly knew the bloke, but kept quiet. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe once Emily got married, her husband would take care of her, and Harriet could finally breathe.

That hope held out until the family dinner.

Ive got it all planned! Emily glowed. A hundred guests, live band, Ive seen a dress I adore in that place on Regent Street

Harriet lowered her fork slowly.

And how much will all this cost?

Well… Emily shrugged, flashing that disarming grin. About fifteen thousand? Maybe seventeen. But its a wedding! Once in a lifetime!

And whos paying?

Hattie, be reasonable James parents cant help, theyve still got the mortgage, and Mums nearly retired. Youll have to take out a loan, I suppose.

Harriet stared at her sister. Then at her mother. Margaret looked away.

Youre joking.

Its a wedding, Hattie, Mum cooed in her most syrupy tone, the one Harriet had known from childhood. Such a special event, only happens once. You cant be stingy…

You want me to go into debt for fifteen thousand to pay for a wedding for someone who cant be bothered getting a job?

Youre my sister! Emily snapped, palm slapping the table. You owe me that much!

Owe you?

Harriet stood. Her mind suddenly deadly calm and clear.

Five years. Five years Ive paid for your education. For Mums medicine. For your food, your clothes, your rent. I work two jobs. I dont own a flat, or a car, or even get a holiday. Im twenty-eight, and the last time I bought myself something new to wear was a year and a half ago.

Hattie, darling Margaret pleaded.

No. Enough. Ive supported you both for years, and now you tell me what I owe you? Im done. From now on, Im living for myself.

She walked out, barely remembering to grab her coat. It was below freezing outside, but Harriet barely felt it. What coursed through her was warmth as if shed finally, after all these years, shrugged off the rucksack of stones weighing her down.

Her phone wouldnt stop ringing. She ignored it, blocked both numbers.

Half a year passed. Harriet moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat, finally something of her own. That summer she at last went to London four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, the city alive with summer evenings. She bought a new dress. And another. And a pair of shoes.

She heard about her family by accident, from an old school friend who worked near her mother.

Is it true your sisters weddings off?

Harriet froze, coffee cup in hand.

What?

Heard her fiancé walked. Found out there was no money, legged it apparently.

Harriet took a sip. The coffee was bitter, but for once, just right.

I dont know. Were not in touch.

That evening she sat by her window, gazing out over her new street, and found no trace of bitterness, not an ounce of spite. Only the quiet satisfaction of someone who had, at last, stopped being a beast of burden.