“Son, the house will be yours. Only, I beg you, look after your poorly sister. You mustn’t abandon her,” whispered his mother.
“Listen to me, son…” she breathed out, barely audible.
Every word cost her dearly. The illness was robbing her of life, bit by bit. She lay in bed, frail as a wisp, almost translucent. William barely recognised her—this wasn’t the strong, warm woman who’d raised him, the one who’d once been full of vigour. Now she was fading before his eyes.
“Promise me, son… don’t leave Margaret… She’s different, but she’s ours. Swear it…” Her grip tightened around his wrist with startling strength. Where did she find the energy?
William frowned. His gaze flicked to his older sister, Margaret, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their cramped flat in Manchester. Forty years old, yet still lost in a world of dolls, humming nonsense under her breath. She smiled as though nothing was amiss, as if their mother wasn’t slipping away.
William had made something of himself—his own construction company, a brand-new Range Rover, a big house by the Thames. But there was no room for Margaret in that life. His kids shied away from her odd habits, and his wife, Evelyn, called her “mad” behind her back. Odd as she was, Margaret was harmless. She never hurt a soul.
“But… you know… I’ve got a family… and Margaret… she’s…” He tried to pull his hand free, but her fingers clung like wire.
“Your father’s house is yours,” she rasped. “But I’ve left a flat—three bedrooms—for Margaret. It’s all settled.”
“Where’d you get the money?” William and Evelyn exchanged stunned glances, their faces brightening despite the grief.
“I cared for an old schoolteacher… Brought her meals, medicine… She was kind. Never expected her to leave me her place. I signed it over to Margaret. But you… you watch over her, please. That flat will go to your children someday… if she…”
They said their goodbyes. By dawn, she was gone.
Margaret didn’t seem to grasp she was alone. William took her in and began renovating the flat straight away.
“Why does Margaret need such a big place? She’ll stay with us. We’ll rent it out,” he told Evelyn excitedly.
At first, Evelyn didn’t argue. Margaret was quiet—playing with her dolls or sorting through drawers, always smiling. But her strangeness unnerved them. “She’s harmless today, but what about tomorrow?” Evelyn muttered.
“Give it time,” William pleaded. Yet six months later, with a solicitor’s help, he transferred both the house and Margaret’s flat into his name. He made her sign papers she couldn’t understand.
From that moment, Margaret’s life became hell.
When William was at work, Evelyn tormented her—locking her in her room, hurling insults, even feeding her cat food instead of meals. One day, she slapped Margaret across the face. The poor woman was so terrified she wet herself.
“Not just daft, but incontinent too? Get out of my house!” Evelyn screeched, shoving a bin bag of her things into her arms and slamming the door.
“Where’s Maggie? Haven’t seen her today,” William asked that evening as he climbed into bed.
“Gone!” Evelyn snapped. “She wet herself in the living room, then locked herself away. I had to force the door, gave her a piece of my mind, and off she went! I’m not chasing after her, the silly cow.”
William froze. He stared at the telly, then shrugged. “Well, if she’s gone… Anyway, found tenants for the flat.”
That night, he didn’t sleep. Where was she? Margaret couldn’t fend for herself—she was like a child. Just before dawn, he dozed off and dreamed of his mother lying in her coffin, pointing at him. “I begged you, son…”
The nightmare haunted him. After two months, he rang his godmother, Anne.
“Conscience gnawing at you, Will?” she said coldly. “Good thing I went by your mum’s old place. Found Maggie there—God knows how she managed it. She lives with me now. I’ll care for her. That flat means nothing to me. But you? Live with it. Pray your mind stays sharp till the end.”
“Enough,” he growled, hanging up. Relief washed over him—Margaret was safe. Life went on.
Two months later, she died of the same illness that took their mother. William skipped the funeral—he had “business” to attend to.
Ten years passed. Now William was bedridden himself, aching in body and soul. Evelyn barely visited, too busy with her new man in the next room. His grown children came rarely, wrinkling their noses. “You smell,” they’d say.
Then one day, Evelyn marched in with papers.
“Sign these. Wrapping up the business.”
He did. Later, he realised—it was the house. Then the company. Too late. His mother’s face flashed in his mind, then Margaret’s. Tears dripped down his cheeks.
“Forgive me…” he whispered to the empty air.
