—Our own flesh and blood are starving, and you’re buying flats!—her mother shrieked.
—Claire and Emma will each get a two-bedroom, and Peter gets the three-bedroom. He promised to look after us in our old age,— said George, staring out the window where snowflakes drifted softly.
Eleanor nodded silently, flipping through an old photo album. Yellowed pictures smiled back at her—little Claire with her ribbons, Peter in torn jeans, and tiny Emma, covered in sand from the playground.
George sat beside her, resting his hand over hers. —It’s fair. Right by the book.
They didn’t know it would be their last conversation. A week later, George passed quietly in his sleep—simply never woke.
Claire heard of her father’s death as she rushed to work. Her mother’s tearful voice crackled over the line:
—Claire, love… your father’s gone.
Everything froze. How? They’d just celebrated his birthday.
At the funeral, Claire held herself together—comforting her mother, hugging Emma, trying to reason with Peter, who swayed with empty eyes. Afterward, she managed everything—groceries, bills, visits.
—Peter, how long will you waste away? You’re twenty-five!—Claire finally snapped.
—Leave it. Don’t tell me how to live,— he grumbled.
—Mum lives on her pension alone! Emma’s at university. And you?
—My business,— he turned to the wall.
Their mother stayed silent. To her, Peter would always be “the boy.”
Six months later, Eleanor called Claire for a talk.
—Peter’s in trouble… He’s got debts. I’ve decided to sell the flats… both.
—What flats?! Dad saved them for me and Emma!
—So? They’re in my name. You’ll marry—husbands will provide. Peter’s to be wed soon.
—Mum… you can’t be serious.
—It’s decided,— her mother cut her off.
Claire walked out into the rain, puddles, fallen leaves… She slumped onto a bench. Her friend Martha took her in temporarily. Claire lived among boxes, filing mortgage papers, listening to the neighbour’s cats scratch or the lift screech at three in the morning.
Meanwhile, her mother called:
—Peter’s out of work. They’ve no food. Help them.
—I can’t! I’ve a mortgage, Mum!
—Buying flats while your family starves?!—her mother wailed.
One day, Emma arrived in tears.
—Mum wants me to quit uni and work. I can’t.
—Move in with me,— Claire said.
They rented a small flat. Emma graduated, later married a man from a good family. They live happily now.
Their mother didn’t attend the wedding.
Then the calls resumed:
—Peter’s expecting a child. They’re struggling. I’ll give them my pension—can I live with you?
—No, Mum. I won’t be part of this.
—So you’d leave your mother homeless?!—she screamed.
Claire changed her number. Only Emma kept the new one.
Months passed. Claire secured her mortgage, adopted a ginger cat. Life mended. Emma called, visited. Then came news:
—I’m pregnant!
Soon a boy arrived—George, named for their father.
One day, a letter came—her mother’s handwriting.
*Forgive me… I was wrong. Victor’s working now. I’ve a granddaughter. And you were right—children ought to be loved the same.*
Claire wiped her tears, then sat at the table.
—I’ll write back,— she told Emma. —Let her know I bear no grudge.
