“Son, you’ll have the house. But please, I’m begging you, take care of your sister. Don’t abandon her,” Mum whispered, her voice weak.
“Listen to me, son…” she breathed out, each word an effort. The illness was stealing her away. Lying in bed, she looked frail, almost ghostly. Jonathan barely recognised her—this wasn’t the strong, warm woman who’d raised him.
“Don’t leave Emily… Protect her. She’s not like others, but she’s ours. Promise me…” Her grip on his hand tightened with surprising strength.
Jonathan winced. His gaze flickered to his older sister, Emily, who sat in the corner of their cramped Manchester flat. At forty, she still played with dolls, humming nonsense to herself. She smiled as if life were a never-ending party, not realising their mother was slipping away.
Jonathan had it all—a successful construction firm, a posh SUV, a riverside home in Surrey. But there was no room for Emily in that life. His kids were scared of her odd behaviour, and his wife, Catherine, called her “mental,” even though Emily was harmless, never bothering a soul.
“Look, I’ve got my own family… Emily’s… well…” he mumbled, trying to pull his hand free.
“Son, your father’s house is yours. But I’ve left Emily a three-bed flat—all sorted.”
“Where’d you get the money?” Jonathan and Catherine exchanged stunned glances, their faces brightening.
“I cared for an old schoolteacher… brought her meals, medicines. She was kind. Never thought she’d leave me her place. I put it in Emily’s name, so she’d always have a home. But *you*—you watch over her. It’ll go to your kids one day… who knows how long she’ll live…”
They said goodbye. Mum died that night.
Emily didn’t seem to grasp she was alone. Jonathan took her in and started renovating *her* flat.
“Why waste a big place on her? Let her stay here. We’ll rent it out,” he told Catherine eagerly.
At first, Catherine didn’t mind. Emily was quiet—playing with dolls or sorting through drawers, always smiling. But her strangeness unnerved them. *She’s fine today, but what if she snaps?* Catherine whispered.
“Just bear with it,” Jonathan said. But six months later, with a solicitor’s help, he transferred both the family home and Emily’s flat into his name. He tricked her into signing papers she didn’t understand.
From then on, Emily’s life was hell.
While Jonathan worked, Catherine tormented her: name-calling, locking her in her room, even feeding her cat food. Once, Catherine slapped her. Emily wet herself in fear.
“Not just daft but incontinent too?! Get out—I can’t stand the sight of you!” Catherine screamed, shoving Emily’s belongings into bin bags and throwing her out.
“Where’s Em? Haven’t seen her,” Jonathan asked that evening.
“Gone!” Catherine snapped. “Pissed herself in the lounge, then locked herself away. I told her off, and off she trotted. Not my problem she’s playing the victim.”
Jonathan froze. After a pause, he muttered, “Well, if she’s gone…” and turned on the telly. “Found tenants for the flat, by the way.”
That night, he barely slept. Where was Emily? She had the mind of a child—helpless. At dawn, he dozed off and dreamt of Mum. *“I asked you, son…”* she said from her coffin, pointing at him accusingly.
The dream haunted him. After two months, guilt drove him to call Mum’s old friend—his godmother, Margaret.
“What, Jon, conscience got you?” Margaret said coldly. “Lucky I stopped by your mum’s that day. Found Emily there—terrified, heartbroken. No idea how she made it alone. She’s with me now. I’ll care for her—I don’t want her flat. *You* live with what you’ve done.”
“Auntie, enough—” Jonathan hung up, relieved. Emily was safe. Life could go on.
She died two months later, the same illness that took Mum. Jonathan skipped the funeral—“work commitments.”
Ten years on, Jonathan’s the one bedridden, his body failing, his guilt worse. Catherine’s moved on, living with some bloke in the next room. His grown kids visit rarely, wrinkling their noses: *“You stink.”* Just like his family, he’s fading away.
One day, Catherine brings papers.
“Sign these—business to sort.”
He does. Too late, he realises—he’s signed away the house, the firm. Memories of Mum and Emily flood back. Tears stream down his face.
*“Forgive me… forgive me…”* he whispers into the empty air.
