—This is utterly ridiculous! She’s always posting these saccharine photos of her daughter on social media with these cringe-worthy captions, but in reality, she hasn’t spared a thought for the girl in four years! What a revolting charade!—Olivia’s voice trembled with indignation as she vented to her friend over coffee in a quaint little café in Manchester.
There, cradling her steaming cup (her knuckles turning white from sheer grip strength), Olivia unloaded about her sister-in-law, who’d been off gallivanting abroad for years, conveniently forgetting she had a daughter.
—Okay, fine, there was a pandemic—she couldn’t visit. But even before that, she couldn’t care less about the child! She just slaps up photos to keep up appearances, like some doting mother of the year. Who leaves their kid for the sake of money?—
Her husband’s niece, 14-year-old Emily, might as well have been an orphan with a living mother. The poor girl was being raised by her grandmother, who, bless her, was pushing 80 and barely keeping up with the demands of a moody teenager.
—Oh, my sister-in-law is an absolute *artist* at crafting illusions—Olivia scoffed.—But when I look at Emily, it breaks my heart. The girl’s growing up without a mother, and all she gets in return is the occasional bank transfer, like that somehow fixes everything!—
Olivia and her sister-in-law, Harriet, were the same age. Olivia had two kids, a mortgage, and, despite the chaos, a happy family. She and her husband, James, made it work—but the shadow of Harriet, James’s sister, loomed over them like permanent British rainclouds.
—Harriet’s parents *always* spoiled her rotten—Olivia huffed.—When she was widowed nine years ago, they did *everything* for her: babysat, loaned her money, the works. Then, a couple of years later, she met some well-off bloke from Switzerland, married him, and swanned off to Geneva.
Harriet never planned to take Emily with her. Claimed she needed to ‘settle in’ first, then she’d come back for her daughter. Years passed. No return. Over in Geneva, Harriet landed a cushy gig as a photographer for a posh agency—not that she needed the money, mind you. Her husband was loaded.
—She’s got the nerve to tell everyone that ‘on the continent, you don’t drag kids from past marriages into new ones’—Olivia said bitterly.—Oh, Emily would be *bored* there, apparently, and who’d pay her any attention? Absolute rubbish! She just doesn’t want the hassle of being a mother!
For years, Emily waited, convinced her mum would come back for her. The first five, she believed. Then reality sank in. Harriet’s excuse? Emily needed to finish school in the UK—otherwise, she’d ‘struggle with the language’. Olivia saw right through it.
—Easier to just wire cash and play ‘Instagram Mum’ from afar—Olivia sighed.—Meanwhile, *we’re* left holding the bucket.
Harriet’s parents and Emily became *their* responsibility. A flooded flat here, a surgery there, a crumbling garden shed—James and Olivia were forever putting out fires, while Harriet just… sent money. Like that magically wiped her hands clean of it all.
Last month, out of nowhere, Harriet waltzed back into Manchester. She smothered Emily in attention, posed for a million photos, showered her in gifts. The poor girl barely dared to breathe, hoping—*believing*—this was it. Mum was taking her home.
Nope. Harriet jetted off alone. Emily locked herself in her room and sobbed. Olivia tried to comfort her—but what could she even say?
—Her grandparents are exhausted—Olivia muttered, her voice cracking.—Emily’s a handful, needs constant attention. And what does Harriet do? Throws money at the problem. ‘I’ll pay for everything, *you* sort it out.’ But Emily’s *hurting*. *We’re* the ones at parent-teacher meetings, *we’re* the ones helping with homework—where’s *she*?
Olivia finally snapped and confronted Harriet, trying to explain how much damage her indifference was doing. The response?
—Stay out of *my* family! None of your business!—
—*Not* my business?!—Olivia fumed.—Then why am I the one carrying her responsibilities? Her mother, of course, defends her—what mum wouldn’t? But Harriet? She’s taken the easy road. No elderly parents, no moody teen—just glamorous trips and designer handbags. Meanwhile, her Instagram is *flooded* with ‘my precious girl’ posts. Real life? A void. The hypocrisy is staggering.
Outside the café, rain traced lazy patterns down the window. Olivia thought of Emily, checking her phone every night, hoping for a message. She thought of her in-laws, worn down by a burden that wasn’t theirs. And of herself and James, stuck in an endless loop of other people’s crises.
Meanwhile, Harriet breezed on, posting yet another photo—#Blessed #BestMum. But Olivia knew the truth: behind those perfect frames was a heartbroken girl and a family left picking up the pieces of Harriet’s abandoned life.
So. What do *you* make of that?
