**A Son’s Burden**
“Son, the house will be yours. Only, I beg you, look after your sister. You mustn’t abandon her,” my mother whispered.
“Listen to me…” she exhaled weakly.
Every word cost her effort. The illness was stealing her life, inch by inch. She lay in bed, frail—nearly translucent. To me, she hardly seemed the same woman. Once tall, strong, with a warm smile, now… this shadow.
“Please, don’t turn your back on Lily,” she pleaded. “She’s not like others, but she’s ours. Promise me.” Her grip on my wrist was unexpectedly fierce. Where had that strength come from?
I grimaced, my gaze drifting to my older sister sitting in the corner of our cramped flat in Manchester. Lily, well into her forties, still cradled a doll, humming to herself. She smiled as if life were a celebration, not a dying mother’s farewell.
I had built a good life—my own construction firm, a Range Rover, a spacious house by the Thames. No place for Lily there. My children found her odd, and my wife, Eleanor, called her “that madwoman.” Yet Lily was harmless, never bothering anyone.
“It’s just… difficult,” I mumbled, trying to free my hand. “I have a family, and Lily…”
“The house is yours,” Mother said, “but I’ve left a three-bed flat for Lily. It’s settled.”
“How?” Eleanor and I exchanged glances, stunned. The prospect even brightened our faces.
“I cared for an old schoolteacher—medicine, meals. She left me the flat. I put it in Lily’s name. But you—promise you’ll watch over her.”
We said goodbye that night. Mother didn’t wake again.
Lily didn’t understand she was orphaned. I took her in, then started renovating her flat.
“Why waste space on her?” I told Eleanor. “Let’s rent it out.”
At first, Eleanor didn’t object. Lily was no trouble: playing with dolls, sorting through her things—always smiling. But her oddness unsettled my wife. “What if she gets worse?”
“Just bear with it,” I said. Yet, six months later, with a solicitor’s help, I transferred everything—the house, the flat—to my name. I coaxed Lily to sign papers without explaining.
From then on, her life became a nightmare.
When I was at work, Eleanor tormented her—locking her in rooms, mocking her, sometimes setting down cat food instead of supper. Once, she slapped Lily so hard the poor woman wet herself in fright.
“Disgusting! Get out!” Eleanor screamed, shoving her belongings into bin bags and tossing them into the street.
“Where’s Lily?” I asked that evening.
“Gone!” Eleanor snapped. “She made a mess, then ran off. I won’t chase her.”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “If she left…” and turned on the telly.
That night, I barely slept, wondering where Lily was. She had the mind of a child, helpless. At dawn, I dozed—dreaming of Mother in her coffin, pointing at me.
The dream haunted me. Weeks later, I called Mum’s old friend, Margaret, hoping she knew Lily’s whereabouts.
“Conscience bothering you?” she said coldly. “Lily turned up at your old place—terrified. She lives with me now. Keep your flat. But you—live with shame.”
I hung up, relieved she was safe.
Two months later, Lily died—the same sickness as Mother. I didn’t attend the funeral. Too busy.
Ten years on, now it’s me bedridden, aching inside more than out. Eleanor’s moved on; my children barely visit.
One day, she thrust papers at me. “Sign these.”
Too late, I realised—they were deeds for the house, the business.
Alone, I wept. “Forgive me.”
