Just Fate
Emily hurried home. Patches of ice still lingered beneath the slushy snow, making the sidewalks slippery and slowing her down. Puddles filled the streets, and passing cars splashed dirty water onto unsuspecting pedestrians. Emily kept her distance from the curb, careful to stay dry.
By the time she reached the house, her back was damp with sweat, her feet ached, and her boots had soaked through. She really needed to buy a new pair.
Exhausted, she dropped onto the hallway stool, peeled off her wet boots, and wiggled her toes inside her damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon would do her good—keep her from falling ill. Before she could set her boots by the radiator, a knock sounded against the wall. Mum’s way of calling her—rapping a spoon against the plaster. Emily sighed and stepped into her mother’s room.
“What is it, Mum?”
Her mother mumbled something incoherent.
“I was at work,” Emily said, straightening the blanket that had slipped off her mum. The sharp scent of urine hit her. The nappy was full.
She grabbed a fresh one from the pack by the bedside, pushing down the wave of nausea as she changed it. The whole time, her mother muttered wordlessly.
“All done. I’ll make dinner and feed you in a bit.” Emily lifted the heavy, soiled nappy and left, ignoring her mother’s noises. She had taught herself not to grumble or resent her—it wouldn’t help, and she’d only feel worse. A moment to sit and rest would be a luxury, but Mum kept knocking, demanding attention.
Once, they had been a normal family. Dad chaired a university department, Mum stayed home with the kids, waiting for him. Then, in an instant, everything fell apart. Emily was in Year 11, her brother Edward had just finished his third-year uni exams, when their father died.
A desperate mother of an applicant had tried bribing him to secure her son a place on his course. Dad, head of the admissions board, was principled—he never abused his position. Humiliated, the woman retaliated, falsely accusing him of taking money. An investigation began. The stress was too much—he had a heart attack on the way to the hospital and died.
Mum never recovered. She slipped into grief, barely noticing Emily or Edward, sitting for hours staring blankly. Sometimes, she’d snap into action, cooking dinner as if he were coming home. She never accepted his death.
Before, a young woman named Lucy had come twice a week—cleaning, shopping. Mum refused shop-bought meat and veg. With Dad gone, they couldn’t afford help. Emily took over, and Mum only saw her as the help, calling her Lucy, barking orders.
Their savings dwindled fast—there hadn’t been much. Mum never economised, always buying herself clothes and jewellery. She had been beautiful; Dad spoiled her.
University colleagues used to visit often. Even now, Mum made Emily set the table like they were expecting guests, then forgot and scolded her for cooking too much. School was Emily’s only escape—until she had to drop out.
Edward was the one who said she should work. If he quit uni, he’d be drafted—useless to them. But if he graduated, he’d get a job and support them.
It seemed the only solution. Emily left school and took work at a nursery—luckily, she’d studied music as a child, so she led singalongs and plays. The pay was low, but she could dash home during the children’s nap to check on Mum. Most of her wages went on rent and Mum’s medicine.
After graduating, Edward moved to London. His promise of help vanished. When Emily begged for money for a carer, he claimed he was struggling too—rent, bills—he had nothing to spare.
They’d never been close. Edward was the handsome one—thick dark hair, striking brown eyes, tall. Mum had been over forty when Emily was born, hesitant even to keep her. Emily was sickly—every draft sent her temperature soaring. She took after Dad—mousey hair, thin lips, ears that stuck out. Mum’s beauty skipped her entirely.
Mum looked at her with pity. Sometimes Emily wondered if Mum regretted not terminating the pregnancy. But she adored Edward, bragged about him constantly.
Only Dad had praised her—for her music. She’d practise for hours just to hear him say she’d done well. Then he was gone, and Mum forgot she existed.
Edward rarely visited. Once, after he left, Emily opened Mum’s jewellery box, hoping to sell something small. Half of it was gone. She knew it was Edward. Mum accused her, screamed, threatened to call the police.
Emily rang Edward. He denied it and hung up. To Mum, she confessed to selling some—they needed the money. Mum raged but didn’t call the cops. She’d never believe Edward could steal.
One winter, Mum put on her fur coat, the last of her gold, and went shopping—Christmas gifts for Dad and Edward. Dark fell before Emily found her, half-frozen in the park. Mugged, left to die. She survived, barely, but the shock broke her. She became bedridden, incontinent, mute.
Time made her worse. Emily cared for her. Then Edward showed up.
“It stinks in here. You’re not looking after her,” he complained.
She snapped. “Take her, then. Your wife can do better.”
Edward stepped into Mum’s room—and right back out. The smell choked him. “She doesn’t even know me. Put her in a home. You could have a life.”
“That’s our mother!” Emily shouted. “She worshipped you!”
“She’s a vegetable. Look at you—when was your last haircut? You’re a musician with hands like a labourer.”
“How many times did I beg you for help? Instead, you stole her jewellery. Come for the rest? There’s nothing left.”
Edward didn’t argue. That was new. Soon, she knew why.
He hemmed and hawed—his family was cramped, another baby coming…
Her stomach dropped. “You want the flat.”
“We’ll sell this one. Buy you something smaller, take the rest.”
“What about Mum?”
“She’ll die soon. Stick her in a home.”
Emily didn’t sleep that night. Edward had a family; she had nothing but this flat—and Mum. The courts wouldn’t care.
She agreed—but insisted on a large kitchen. She’d sleep there.
Edward, suddenly sweet, called her “sis.” He packed them up, gushed about the new place—good area, bright rooms, big kitchen…
The flat was a shoebox. The kitchen barely fit a chair. Traffic roared day and night.
“London’s expensive,” Edward said. “Be grateful it’s not a bedsit.”
Summer baked the top-floor flat. Winter froze it. Mum died three months later. No funeral from Edward—his wife had just given birth. Emily borrowed from colleagues, buried her alone.
A colleague suggested a holiday—family in Cornwall had a spare room. Emily went.
She walked by the sea, savouring the air. One day, she helped a woman whose wheelchair stuck in sand. The woman’s son, Daniel, walked her home.
“Come visit,” he said. His mother hinted—he liked her. She stayed, considering it.
Then she worked his market stall all day, cooked, tended his garden. Exhausted, she realised: he didn’t love her. She’d be a drudge again.
She left without goodbyes.
Back home, Edward called.
“I’m in hospital,” he said. “Can you come?”
She went.
“Thanks,” he said. “My wife left—I won’t walk again. Take me in.”
“Where? That one-bed where Mum died?” She laughed. “You wanted her in a home. Stole her jewellery. Sold our flat. And now you ask me for help?”
His tears didn’t move her. “Your family can help you.”
Guilt gnawed at her as she left. “No more servitude,” she told herself. “I’ll live for me.”
Later, a child at the nursery—his parents dead, no family—needed a home. Her boss suggested fostering. She’d need a husband—even a paper one.
She agreed. The marriage became real. They had a daughter.
Edward? He went to a care home.
