“Son, look after your poorly sister. Don’t you dare abandon her!” Mum whispered weakly, her words clawing at his conscience.
“Listen, lad” she breathed, each syllable a struggle. The illness had hollowed her outonce sturdy, now frail as tissue paper. Oliver barely recognised her. Shed been the sort to laugh through thunderstorms, but now
“Ollie, promise me youll care for Emmeline Shes delicate. Different, but shes ours. Swear it.” Her grip on his hand surprised himwhered she find the strength?
Oliver grimaced. His gaze flicked to his older sister, Emmeline, crouched in the corner of their cramped flat in Birmingham. Forty years old and still playing with dolls, humming tunelessly. She grinned like Mum wasnt dying but hosting tea.
Oliver had life sorted: a construction firm, a flashy Range Rover, a posh house by the Severn. No room for Emmeline there. His kids found her odd, and his wife, Felicity, called her “that loon.” Never mind that Emmeline was harmlessjust a child in a grown womans body.
“Thing is Ive got responsibilities and Ems well” he stammered, trying to wriggle free of Mums grip.
“Son, your dads house is yours. But Ive left Emmeline a three-bed flat. Its all legal.”
“Since when could we afford that?!” Oliver and Felicity exchanged wide-eyed glances, faces alight with greedy shock.
“I looked after old Mrs. Hawthornetook her meals, medicines. Kind soul. Never thought shed leave me the flat. Its in Emmelines name, so shes safe. But youyou watch over her, yeah? Later, itll go to your kids. Who knows how long shell”
That night, Mum passed.
Emmeline didnt seem to grasp she was orphaned. Oliver took her in at once and started renovating the flat.
“Whys she need all that space? She can stay here. Well rent it out.”
Felicity didnt object at first. Emmeline was quiet, giggling over her dolls. But her oddness unnerved her. “Shes calm today, but what if she snaps?”
“Just bear with it,” Oliver pleaded. Yet six months later, with a mates help at the solicitors, he transferred both the family home and Emmelines flat into his name. Tricked her into signing papersno explanations.
Then hell began.
While Oliver worked, Felicity tormented Emmeline: locking her in rooms, serving her cat food, shouting till she cowered. One day, Felicity hit her. Emmeline, terrified, wet herself.
“Not just daft, but pissing yourself now? Out of my house!”
She chucked Emmelines things in a bin bag and shoved her out.
“Wheres Em?” Oliver asked that evening, lounging in bed.
“Gone!” Felicity snapped. “Wet herself, then bolted with her bag. Im not chasing some madwoman!”
Oliver said nothing. Then, “Well, if shes gone” and clicked on the telly. “Found tenants, by the way.”
The night stretched long. He thought of Emmelinewhere was she? Helpless as a toddler. By dawn, he dozed off, dreaming of Mum:
“I begged you, son” she hissed from her coffin, wagging a bony finger.
The dream haunted him for weeks. He cracked after two months, ringing his godmother, Margaret:
“What, Oliver, conscience biting?” she said coldly. “Good job I checked on your mum. Found Emmeline terrifiedtook her in. Ill keep her. Dont want her flat. You live with the shame.”
“Christ, Auntie” he muttered, hanging up. Relief washed over himEmmeline was safe.
But she died two months later, same illness as Mum. Oliver skipped the funeral”urgent business.”
Ten years on, Oliver lay ill, racked with pain and guilt. Felicity had moved on with some bloke. The kids visited rarely, wrinkling their noses: “You smell like death.”
One day, Felicity marched in with papers:
“Sign these. Sort the firm out.”
He did. Too late, he realisedhed signed away the house. Then the business. Memories of Mum and Emmeline flooded him. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Forgive me” he whispered into the swallowing dark.
