**Diary Entry 22nd March**
*”But shes family, isnt she?”*
Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen like some self-sacrificing martyr, one hand nearly clutching her chest. Her voice dripped with disappointment. As if to say, *How could you not care about someone elses struggles?* Emily slowly set down her fork and looked at me. I turned away.
“Mum, explain properly. Its not like youre asking us to pop to the chemists,” I said evenly, though my nail was scraping at the label on my fizzy drink. Margaret, meanwhile, waved her hands about like she was giving some grand speech.
“Right. From the top. Ive found a one-bed flat. Nicely done up. Cheap. Perfect for me,” she rattled off. “Ill sell my two-bed straight away, but that takes timepaperwork, viewings, I dont want to undersell. But this flats a rush job. The sellers moving, wants a quick sale, hence the discount. I need £30,000 for a couple of months. Once mine sells, Ill pay you back every penny.”
Emily pressed her palm to her forehead. Bloody hell. My mother was worse than a tank rolling into battle. Once Margaret got an idea in her head, good luck talking her out of it.
“Waityou never said you wanted to move. You always said youd stay put.”
“Well, Ive changed my mind,” Margaret shrugged, as if she were switching brands of washing powder.
I tried to smile. It didnt work.
“Mum, how does Paul come into this?”
“Well, look. You two have saved up, moved out, youre looking at places. Im on my own nowwhat do I need two bedrooms for? Ill sell mine, buy the new one, give the difference to Paul. He can get a mortgage, finally stop renting.”
“So youre asking us to put our lives on hold for Paul?” Emily cut in. “When were already flat-hunting?”
The kitchen went thick with silence. Margaret sighed dramatically.
“You dont have children. Youve got time. Paul needs help *now*. Whats hard to understand?”
Emilys eyes flashed. It wasnt fair. Why should my brother always come first?
***
Wed met six years ago. Id just finished uni, was scraping by on my first job, counting every poundbut I had a plan. Sensible. Flat first, then kids. I hated that “love and a garden” nonsense.
Paul was different.
Five years older, he lived by the idea that things would just *work out*. He and his wife, sweet but permanently exhausted Lucy, had one kid first, *then* wondered where to live. Then came the second, and saving went out the window.
“I wont live like that. Well do things properly,” Id told Emily once.
Now “properly” was being used against us. My mother judged her sons by their grandchildren. And I was losing.
“What if you dont sell? Or change your mind?” Emily frowned.
“Im your mother, not a con artist!” Margaret snapped. “Do you really think Id cheat my own son? Is that what you think of me?”
I rubbed my forehead, still scrambling for words.
“Emily, lets talk later. Its… a lot. But shes family. Not some stranger.”
Emily stood without a word and went to the window. The glass had fogged up. On the sill, a geranium was drying outtoo far gone to save, not dead enough to throw away. Just like her trust in my mother.
“Do you really believe itll be alright?”
“I… hope so.”
She couldnt fight me on this.
Three days later, we handed over the money. No IOU. Margaret didnt offer; Emily didnt push. Not that she hadnt thought of itjust felt awkward. *Shes my mother. She wouldnt.*
“Thank you, loves. Youre so good to me. Kindness always comes back,” Margaret cooed.
After she left, Emily sat silent on the sofa edge, clutching her empty wallet like a sick child. Wed given everything. Even the cash reserve.
“If we end up with nothing,” she said, not looking at me, “its on you. I warned you.”
I didnt argue. Something twisted in my gut, but I still hoped.
***
Margarets calls grew shorter. She mentioned us less, avoided money talk. At first, Emily brushed it off. Maybe she was busy. Maybe ill.
But the dread built.
Then Emily ran into Sarah, a friend of Lucys.
“Hey! Why werent you at the housewarming?”
“What housewarming?”
“Paul and Lucys! Margaret *gave* them her flat.”
Emily froze. She dropped the shopping bags, stared blankly across the street.
“*Gave*? Youre sure?”
“Yeah, signed it over. Moved into a smaller place. Ohyouve gone red. You alright?”
Emily barely made it to a bench. Her legs were lead. Maybe Sarah had it wrong.
That evening, she told me.
“She wouldnt. Maybe shes letting them stay temporarily?”
“Oh, right. Thats why they threw a party. Has she rung you *once* in two weeks?” Emilys eyes narrowed.
“No… but”
“Exactly. Weve been played.”
We went the next day. Margaret answered in a dressing gown, hair wet, smiling politely like nothing had happened.
“Hi, Mum. We need to talk,” I said.
“Of course. Come in. Ive just made a pie.”
Emily sat but didnt touch the food.
“We want to know when were getting our money back.”
“When I sell my flat. Like we agreed.”
“*Are* you selling it? I havent seen a single listing.”
“Im using an estate agent!”
“Margaret… the truth. I know Pauls already moved in.”
Margaret paused, then sighed. No shame.
“Fine. Not selling. Not yet.”
“You *lied*?”
Emilys face drained. Her jaw clenched. I think she wanted to hit both of us.
“I didnt lie. I just decided whats fair. Paul has kids. You dontnot yet.”
“Dont you *dare*” Emilys voice cracked. “Dont act like we owe him! We want children too. We trusted you. Gave you *everything*! And you stole from your own son?”
I stared at the floor. What could I do? Shout at my mother? Drag Paul into it? Not my style. Pointless anyway.
“Ill pay you back,” Margaret said quietly. “Just… not yet.”
Behind Emilys eyes, I saw the memoriesweekends cleaning strangers houses, me working doubles, loading vans for cash. My back always aching. Pizza a luxury. New bedsheets an *event*. Wed scrimped, delayed our lives, believing it was an investment.
Now that life might never start.
That night, Emily sobbed in the bathroom. Not cried*wailed*. Muffled, ragged, her shirt soaked.
“Why didnt you *say* anything?!” she screamed later.
“I didnt think shed”
“I *did*! I told you. But you chose her. She chose Paul. And me? No one chose me.”
“Emily”
“Too late.”
We slept in separate rooms. That night, I sat on the sofa, staring at the wall, trying to convince myself it wasnt over. Hard to believe.
Our marriage became like a suitcase with no handletoo heavy to carry, too valuable to ditch. We bickered over nothing: bins, windows, whose turn to hoover. The tension never lifted. Neither did the sudden weight of being poor again.
Emily had no one to tell. Her dad was gone; her mum had passed. Friends? Didnt want airing dirty laundry.
Only her gran was left, but she had a bad heart. Emily held out until she couldnt.
“Gran? Can I come over? I… cant do this alone.”
“Of course, love,” came the soft reply.
Gran lived across town. The sort whod never share her own feelings but could listen, hold you without a word. She met Emily with stewed tea and porridgejust like shed made when Emily was small.
When the story spilled out between tears, Gran nodded.
“Your husbands a fool, but hes kind… Life will teach him.” She glanced out the window. “Move in with me. No more renting. Ive two spare rooms. Well manage.”
Emily broke. Hugged her, cried into her shoulder, mumbled thanks. Yes, itd still be hard. But not alone.
She stayed the night. I came next morning with two bags. No words, no apologies. Just sat
