**The Flat, or The Story of a Family**
Emily trudged home from school, racking her brain on how to keep her mum from finding out about the failing grade. If only Mum weren’t home today. Then she could just hide the report card and claim she’d forgotten it at school. But what about tomorrow? She couldn’t “forget” it every day. Mum would find out eventually.
*I’ll hide it today and work on fixing the grade tomorrow. Then she won’t be too cross,* Emily decided, quickening her pace.
Mum reminded her daily how important it was to do well in school—first, not to disgrace her father’s name (he was a professor), and second, to keep her mind sharp. Some conditions ran in the family. Her grandmother had died of Alzheimer’s when Emily was just two.
She slipped into the flat quietly, careful not to slam the door. Mum’s coat hung on the rack—she was home. Emily tiptoed to her room, stuffed the report under her pillow, and let out a sigh of relief. Changed, she dove straight into her homework, even rereading the history chapter twice. Oddly, Mum never came in—uncharacteristically absent.
Cracking the door open, Emily listened. Silence. Maybe Mum was ill and asleep? Their flat was spacious, with high ceilings and wide windows in the heart of London. The furniture was old, dark, and heavy. The hallway, lined with towering wardrobes, felt endless and dim.
Then the grandfather clock in the parlour struck—Emily nearly jumped. She composed herself, remembering it was just Granddad’s old clock, and shuffled down the hall. Peeking into the kitchen, she saw Mum slumped at the table, head buried in her arms.
“Mum?” Emily touched her shoulder.
Mum lifted her face, red-eyed.
“Dad’s gone. Right in the middle of his lecture…” Her voice was hollow. She clung to Emily and sobbed into her shoulder. Emily held it together—for a moment—then broke down too.
The next day, she skipped school. There was no fixing grades now. They went to the hospital, then the morgue, where Mum brought Dad’s best suit and barely worn shoes, then somewhere else.
The funeral was packed—mostly university colleagues from his department. Emily barely recognised him in the coffin. A stranger, withered. But Mum wept over him, murmuring, *How will we manage without you? Why did you leave us…*
Afterwards, Mum stayed in bed for days, crying, refusing meals. Emily lived on pasta or frozen dinners. When those ran out, she asked for money.
“Take it,” Mum said flatly, not even asking why.
Emily bought sausages, a loaf of bread, and two packs of pasta.
One evening, she came home to find Mum at the stove—making soup. Emily’s heart leapt.
“How’s school? What have you been eating?” Mum asked. Emily told her. “Forgive me. I forgot about you. But tomorrow, I’ll go to Dad’s department—ask for work. They won’t refuse me, surely? We have to carry on.”
She looked gaunt, pale—nothing like before. But at least she wasn’t crying.
The new department head, Dad’s former student, made her a lab assistant. With only partial higher education, she couldn’t teach. The pay was meagre, so she took on cleaning shifts after hours.
*The professor’s widow, scrubbing floors,* Mum sighed.
Emily often helped.
Money stayed tight. Mum sold her jewellery to colleagues—cheap, just to get by. Soon, even that was gone.
A neighbour offered to buy some furniture. Mum refused.
“A flat without its furniture loses its soul,” she said.
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, my offer won’t stand,” the neighbour huffed, leaving.
Emily asked why she prized the furniture but sold the gold.
*You’re still so young. These pieces are antiques—museum-quality. Even during the war, they weren’t sold.*
Then Mum told her how they’d come to be here.
She’d arrived from a tiny village to study, living in student housing. Dad—older, a lecturer—fell for her. They hid their affair until she fell pregnant. Then he brought her home.
They married, though his mother disapproved, sneering Mum wasn’t fit *for*
