The Wounds of Betrayal
Emma was drying the last dish when the phone shattered the quiet of her kitchen in a small town near Manchester. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she picked up the receiver.
“Em, hello, love!” came the syrupy voice of Aunt Margaret.
“Good evening,” Emma replied, her tone clipped.
“Sweetheart, my boy’s moving to Manchester—needs a place to stay. Could you put him up for a bit?” Margaret cooed.
“No. Figure it out yourselves!” Emma snapped, feeling her face flush.
“But… we’re family,” Margaret stammered.
“After what you lot did, you’re strangers to me,” Emma shot back.
“What are you on about? What did I do?” Panic crept into her aunt’s voice.
“Em, you won’t say no, will you?” Margaret’s voice dripped with false sweetness, as if she were doing Emma a favour rather than begging for one.
Emma stood by the window, fists clenched. These conversations happened too often. Once again, she’d have to bend her plans for “family.”
“What’s wrong now?” she asked, already dreading the answer.
“Your cousin’s failing maths!” Margaret babbled. “Exams are coming, and her teacher’s brutal. You’re the clever one—could you tutor her?”
Emma gritted her teeth. She’d already taught four relatives’ kids for free. But saying no wasn’t an option—she’d been raised that way.
“Fine,” she sighed, hating herself for giving in.
In her family, helping relatives was sacred. Emma’s parents had drilled into her that family was everything, that you never turned your back on your own. They never hesitated with time or money. If kin needed help, they stepped up.
“One day, they’ll return the favour,” her mother always said.
Emma believed it.
Her parents weren’t wealthy, but they ran a small shop. They lived modestly but comfortably—enough to become the family’s “bank.” Relatives stayed over to save on hotels, borrowed money with empty promises to repay, or leaned on her father for jobs.
Emma did her part too. After uni, she became the free tutor for nieces, nephews, and distant cousins. Evenings bled into years of teaching their kids, sacrificing her own time. She was sure—when her family needed help, their kin would be there.
That belief shattered.
“Are you certain?” Emma’s voice trembled, her nails digging into the table’s edge.
The doctor gave her a sympathetic look, accustomed to delivering such news.
“We’ve checked multiple times,” he said quietly. “Treatment needs to start immediately.”
Emma nodded, her legs unsteady. The thought that they weren’t alone was her only lifeline.
At home, silence hung thick. Her father stared blankly at the wall. Her mother paced, phone in hand but too hesitant to call. Emma watched them and knew—they couldn’t give up.
“We’ll manage,” she said, breaking the quiet. “We’ve got plenty of family. We’ll get through this.”
Her father exhaled roughly.
“But the cost… It’s too much.”
“We’ll find the money,” her mother cut in.
They sold everything: Emma’s flat, the car, jewellery, even furniture. Her parents emptied the business savings. Still, it wasn’t enough. So they did what felt natural—they reached out to the relatives they’d helped for years.
“Family, we’re in trouble,” her mother’s voice shook. “We need help. Anything you can spare.”
Silence. Then excuses.
“Hang in there,” one aunt said. “We would, but we’re barely scraping by ourselves…”
“Such a shame,” an uncle echoed. “Up to our necks in debt—”
“I would, but the money’s tied up in a fixed deposit,” a cousin said flatly.
Emma listened, disbelieving. The ones who’d borrowed their money, lived in their home, used their connections—now couldn’t spare even a few hundred quid.
Only one distant cousin offered help—a small sum, apologising it wasn’t more. Emma knew it was a lot for him and fought back tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She turned off her phone and clenched her fists. They’d manage—even if no one else believed in them.
They remortgaged her parents’ house.
“Are we really doing this?” Emma’s hands trembled in her hair.
“No choice,” her mother said wearily.
Piles of bills and paperwork covered the kitchen table. Outside, dusk fell, but no one turned on the lights—every penny counted.
“If we default, we lose everything,” Emma whispered.
“If we stop, we lose your father,” her mother said.
The money came fast and vanished faster—every pound for treatment, every procedure a fragile hope. Emma lost count of hospital trips, tests, prescriptions.
Her father improved. That was all that mattered.
“Progress,” the doctor said, removing his glasses. “But it’s a long road ahead.”
Her mother exhaled; Emma nodded. They were ready.
They worked themselves ragged. Her mother kept the business afloat, took on accounting gigs, juggled meetings. Emma did everything: her day job, evening tutoring, freelance translations at night.
“When did you last sleep?” her mother asked, finding her at the kitchen table at dawn.
“Can’t remember,” Emma croaked, brewing coffee.
They exchanged tired smiles. Hard—but they wouldn’t break.
Two years of battle—exhaustion, sleepless nights, endless numbers, scrimping. But her father walked again, returned to work, became himself.
One evening, he sat at the table, looked at his wife and daughter, and murmured:
“Thank you.”
Emma squeezed his hand, wordless.
Only then did the relatives reappear.
“Em, hello, darling!” Aunt Margaret trilled. “You’ve gone quiet—how’s your dad?”
Emma gripped the armrest, stunned. Margaret spoke as if the two years of struggle never happened.
“He’s fine,” Emma said coldly.
“Lovely!” Margaret chirped. “We thought you were cross with us. But family forgives, right?”
Emma’s throat went dry.
“Did you want something?” she asked, sensing the trap.
A pause—then the expected:
“My boy’s off to Manchester—needs somewhere to stay while he flatshares—”
“No room. Dad’s recovering—we’re not hosting.” Emma hung up.
After her father’s recovery, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Relatives who’d ghosted them for two years suddenly remembered. They took offence at Emma’s distance, called her cold, pretended nothing had happened.
“We’re family!” a cousin huffed. “You’re acting like we’re strangers!”
“Aren’t we?” Emma retorted.
Those who’d found money for cars, weddings, and holidays didn’t understand why they weren’t welcomed with open arms anymore.
“No one owes you anything!” Margaret snapped.
“Nor you us,” Emma fired back.
Three years passed. Life steadied. The mortgage was cleared, her parents’ business thrived, Emma bought a new flat. They weren’t scraping by anymore—they could breathe.
Emma rarely thought about the relatives—only when someone tried to “make amends,” hoping for the old generosity. They called her family “snobs,” accused them of pride. They’d forgotten how they’d turned away.
“They’re just jealous,” her father said, shutting the door on another “guest.”
Emma smiled.
“Maybe.”
She wasn’t angry anymore—but she’d never trust that “family” again. Now, they helped only each other—and those who’d earned it.
