Two Ungrateful Daughters
“We didnt buy that three-bed flat just for fun, you know,” Mum leaned in, her eyes bright with excitement. “Were renting it out to studentsby the room! Five lads already moved in. The rents enough to keep us comfortable in retirement.”
Emma nodded, happy for them. Her parents had worked their fingers to the bone all their lives, and now they deserved an easy retirement. But then her dad, William Harris, whod been quietly reading his paper at the table, finally spoke up.
“Course, we know what youre thinking,” he said, folding the paper. “Whos getting the flat when were gone? Its only naturalthree kids means someones bound to wonder.”
Emma shook her head. The thought hadnt even crossed her mind. Her parents were alive and wellwhy worry about inheritance? But her mum, Margaret, carried on with such a sneer in her voice that Emmas stomach turned cold.
“Oh, dont deny it! Youve thought about it, havent you? Wholl get such a nice place?”
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but Margaret cut her off.
“Anyway, your dad and I talked it over. The flat goes to whoever takes the best care of us. Fairs fair, right?”
Silence fell in the kitchen. Emma stared at them, hardly believing her ears. Was this some sort of competition? Her dad cleared his throat and went on, avoiding her eyes.
“Weve spent our lives looking after youfeeding you, clothing you, sacrificing for you. Now its time for things to change. Youll have to prove yourselves. And if we dont like what we see…” He paused meaningfully. “Well, dont expect a penny.”
Emma sat there, stunned. Her parents watched her expectantly, as if waiting for applause. A lump rose in her throat. She stood, muttered something about an urgent errand, and rushed out.
On the bus home, Emmas mind spun like a hamster on a wheel. What was that? Some twisted auction? Whoever schmoozes the most gets the flat? She pulled out her phone and dialled her older sister, Sophie.
“Soph, you wont believe what they just said,” Emma blurted.
“About the flat and inheritance?” Sophie sounded exhausted. “They dropped the same bomb on me yesterday. Im still reeling.”
“What do we do now?” Emma pressed the phone closer, straining to hear over the bus noise.
“No clue. Weve always helped themgroceries, bills, running over at the drop of a hat. And little Tom? Always too busywork, his girlfriend, whatever.” Bitterness seeped into Sophies voice.
“How are they even judging who cares more?” Emma stepped off at her stop, still talking. “Gonna give us points? Make a chart?”
Sophie let out a hollow laugh.
“Pretty much. Maybe its for the best. At least well know where we stand. Though Ive got a good guess wholl win.”
The next few weeks were torture. The calls started comingrelentless. Late Wednesday evening, the first one rang.
“Emma, love, weve got a bit of a situation,” Mums voice was sharp. “Weve got a doctors appointment tomorrow, and we need to pop by the shops after. Could you drive us? Your cars fixed now, isnt it?”
Emma had a crucial meeting at nine.
“Mum, what about a taxi?”
“Taxi? Dont be ridiculous!” Margaret huffed. “Are we strangers to you? Cant your own parents rely on you?”
Emma sighed. As usual, she caved. Next morning, she drove them around, listening to them gush about how brilliant their son Tom was.
Friday, mid-report at work, her dad called.
“Love, the new furniture arrived. Need help moving it in. Cant afford movers these days. Six hands make light work, eh?”
“Dad, Im at the office”
“Some job youve got if you cant spare an hour for family,” he grumbled.
Again, Emma rushed over, earning glares from her boss. Her back ached for days.
On her one free weekendfinally booked a facialher mum rang.
“Emma, were doing a deep clean. Curtains down, chandeliers scrubbed. Cant manage alone at our age…”
The facial was cancelled. Emma spent the day elbow-deep in soap, listening to endless praise for Tom.
“Toms so thoughtful,” Margaret sighed, sipping tea while Emma scrubbed the oven. “Called yesterday, chatted for ages!”
“When was the last time he actually helped?” Emma snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.
Her parents exchanged looks. Her mum pursed her lips.
“That tone! Toms busy. Important job, not like you girls. Youre meant to care for your parentsits a daughters duty! Hes a man.”
Emma bit her tongue, fists clenched.
A week later, she was backpreserving jars of pickles. Her parents supervised from the table.
“Less vinegar! More dill!” Margaret barked.
“Tom loves these pickles,” William mused. “Hell be thrilled when he visits.”
“Whens that?” Emma twisted another lid.
“Dunno… hasnt been by in a month,” Margaret admitted. “Very busy.”
Emma stopped. Wiped her hands. Turned.
“So the flat goes to me and Sophie, then? Since were the only ones helping?”
Margarets face turned puce. She shot up, knocking over her tea.
“You selfish little! Only thinking of yourself! Toms the heir! Hell bring a wife homehe needs that flat! The family name carries through him!”
Something inside Emma shattered. Years of sacrificesworthless. She untied her apron.
“Heir? What are we, chopped liver? We drop everything for you. But thats not enough?”
She moved towards the door. Her parents scrambled after her.
“Emma, wait! Youre twisting this!” William pleaded.
“The pickles! You cant leave this mess!” Margaret shrilled.
Emma paused at the door. Not angry. Just tired.
“Im busy. Like Tom. Find someone else.”
She left. Dialled Sophie outside.
“Soph, Im done.”
“What happened?”
Emma spilled it all. Sophie exhaled heavily.
“Lets play Toms game. If hes the golden boylet him handle them.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
From then on, every call got the same response: “Ask Tom.” Margaret sulked. William ranted. The sisters held firm.
“Toms getting the flathe can step up,” Emma said coolly.
A month later, Emma walked through the park, leaves crunching underfoot. She breathed in the crisp air and smiled.
Her phone buzzed. Mum. She glanced at the screen and pocketed it.
Let Tom answer. She had her own life to live.
