The Poor Relation
“Wheres my gift? Or am I no longer a woman in your eyes?”
“Honestly? Youre an uninvited guest. Let your daughter buy you presents.”
Emmas chest tightened with nerves, but for the first time in her life, she was saying exactly what she thought of her aunt. A shame it had to be on such a joyful occasion.
Her mother stood in the hallway, arms laden with crimson roses and an expensive bottle of perfumeauthentic, high-end. Aunt Margaret, meanwhile, loomed in the kitchen doorway, her expression darker than storm clouds, her silhouette just as imposing.
“Margaret…” Her mother faltered, glancing at her sister. “She came to see Mum, to wish her happy birthday…”
“And what am I, then? Invisible?” Margaret narrowed her eyes at Emma as if she were the enemy.
“Honestly, youre overestimating yourself. Invisible would be an improvementat least its quiet and doesnt make demands,” Emma shot back.
“Disgraceful manners! What a little brat youve raised, Natalie!” Margaret snapped, brushing past them with a disdainful glare. “Ill be wiser next time. I wont bother with this farce.”
Natalie pressed lightly on Emmas foot, shooting her a warning look. Shed always been the peacemaker in the family, always excusing her sisters eccentricities.
But Emma and her father had far less patience.
Margaret had never been a real presence in Emmas life. Worse, she was unbelievably cheapa proper Scrooge from *A Christmas Carol*. Emma had learned early: expecting gifts from Aunt Margaret was like believing in Father Christmas past the age of thirty.
Oh, sometimes she *did* bring something. But always the dregsthe kind of offerings youd pawn off on someone else.
At four, Emma received a tacky lip-shaped lamp. At six, a chipped money frog missing a leg. Mens socks, expired bath sets, a half-opened box of garish cartoon-chicken bedsheets… the list went on.
Once, Margaret even dragged in a filthy, half-bald kittenclearly plucked from the streets. Her parents wouldve tossed it out if not for Emmas tearful begging. Two days later, they claimed theyd given it away. A decade on, her father confessed: the poor thing had been too sick to save, despite their efforts. The memory still left a bitter taste.
Even Emmas friends knew about Margarets stinginess. Once, after carol singing, they stopped by her aunts. Margaret scurried about for ten minutes before handing them a crumpled bag of stale sweets.
“Ugh, disgusting,” one friend had grimaced outside. “Did your aunt *want* to poison us?”
The sweets were a masterclass in revoltingcoated in white dust, years past expiry, with bitter coffee beans inside. Clearly dug out from some forgotten cupboard.
Emma burned with secondhand shame. Why should *she* feel guilty?
It never improved. If Margaret turned up for holidayswhich she always didshe arrived with empty bags and Tupperware.
“Oh, wrap me up some of that pie, wont you?” shed say to Natalie. “For Lucy and Jack, since they couldnt make it. And some meat, if theres spare. Lord knows when we last had anyprices these days!”
Natalie happily obliged.
“Like it? Bring the kids next weekendI havent seen Lucy in ages.”
At restaurants, Margaret wasted no time boxing leftoverseven asking other guests if theyd finished their meals.
Family gatherings were just her moaning about prices, wages, and taxes. So imagine the shock when she once boasted about buying a second flat up north.
“Propertys just as dear, but rents are higher,” shed said smugly. “Though the travels a pain. Lucky Ive two mates there keeping an eye on things.”
Meanwhile, Emmas parents had been saving for home repairs for five yearsand still couldnt afford them. Their “poor relation” was far richer than theyd ever be.
When Emma turned fifteen, Margaret moved to that very flat. Lucy started uni, and Margaret followed. Emma and her father sighed in reliefshed long overstayed her welcome.
But Natalie was heartbroken. “Shes still my sister…”
Now, seven years later, Margaret was back. Visiting Grandma, as usualempty-handed. No cake, no flowers, not even a cheap supermarket dessert. Yet she sat at the table like royalty, expecting to be served.
And of course, shed timed it perfectlyearly March. Just before Emmas birthday. Margaret always knew when gifts were due.
She hadnt changed. But Emma had. No longer a timid girl waiting for miracles, shed decided: she *wouldnt* wish Margaret happy birthday. Even if it meant a row.
Her father, once Margaret was out of earshot, grinned and gave Emma a thumbs-up. Natalie sighed and called everyone to dinner.
Margaret soon followed the scent of roast turkey, wearing the expression of someone doing them a *favour*. Lips pursed, arms crossed, one leg over the other…
Emma decided to twist the knifeand lay groundwork. Her birthday was coming, and she *refused* to hear about petrol prices at her own party.
“Mum, about my birthday…”
Margaret perked up instantly. Where there were parties, there was free food.
“Oh, its your birthday? When?” she asked, sickly sweet.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Really? Id *completely* forgotten! Well, well all celebrate, wont we? Properly! Ill stay till then.”
Her voice dripped with greedy anticipation. Probably already picturing the Tupperware haul.
“Cant. Im celebrating with friends this year. You dont mind, Mum?”
Margarets smile froze. The light in her eyes died. Shed realised: no profit hereonly loss. Though knowing her, shed take revenge by skipping Emmas gift.
Her father watched, amused.
“Oh, you youngsters,” Natalie sighed. “Forgetting about us. But do stop by. Ill cook something.”
“Thats what I wanted to ask… Could you come help me clean and cook? Well catch up. Works been madno weekends for two weeks. Four of usll manage quicker. Ill visit *you* Sunday.”
Margarets gaze darted between them. Emma bit back a smirk.
“Of course, love. Well help. But dont rely on Dadhis backs been playing up…”
They agreed. Only her father, walking her out, sensed the game.
“Youre serious about this birthday plan?”
“No. But they dont need to know,” Emma whispered, winking.
Shed expected Margaret to feign illness to dodge unpaid labour. But it was even better. Next day, her father called with news.
“Thank you. Youve saved us.”
Margaret had left. Just before the holiday. Hastily packed, barely said goodbye. Natalie shed a few tearsthen admitted even *she* was tired of her sisters mooching.
Everyone got what they deserved. Margaret kept her miserly ways. Emma kept her familys supportand newfound self-respect. She hoped Aunt Margaret wouldnt return anytime soon.
But if she did? Well. Thered always be *something* needing done.
