**The Poor Relation**
* And wheres my gift? Or am I not a woman anymore?*
* Honestly? Youre an uninvited guest. Let your daughter give you presents.*
Emmas heart clenched with nerves, but for the first time, she was saying exactly what she thought of her aunt. A shame it had to happen on such a bright holiday.
Her mother stood in the hallway with a bouquet of crimson roses and a box of new perfumeproper, high-quality stuff. Aunt Dora, meanwhile, loomed in the kitchen doorway like a storm cloud, her silhouette just as vast.
* Dora* her mother faltered, glancing at her sister. * Shes here to see me, to wish Mum happy birthday*
* And what am I? Nothing?* Dora narrowed her eyes at Emma as if she were the enemy.
* Thats a stretch. Even nothing would be betterquieter, at least, and without the demands,* Emma shot back.
* What manners! Youve raised a right little madam, Natasha!* Dora snapped before sweeping past, tossing Emma a scornful look. * Ill be wiser. I wont be part of this circus.*
Her mother pressed lightly on Emmas foot with a warning glance. Natasha had always been the peacemaker in the family, endlessly tolerant of her sisters quirks.
Emma and her father, though? Not so patient.
Dora had barely been part of Emmas lifeand when she was, she was pinchpenny to the bone, like Scrooge from *A Christmas Carol*. Emma had known since childhood: expecting gifts from Aunt Dora was like believing in Father Christmas after thirty.
Oh, sometimes she *did* bring something. But always the dregs*”Here, take this, we dont want it.”*
At four, Emma got a tacky lip-shaped lamp. At six, a chipped money frog figurine missing a leg. Mens socks, expired shower gels, an opened box of hideous cartoon-chicken bedsheets the list went on.
Once, Dora even dragged in a half-bald, filthy stray kitten as a *”gift.”* Her parents wouldve tossed it out if not for Emmas tearful pleas. Days later, they claimed theyd given it to friendsonly for Emma to need treatment for ringworm. Tears? *Buckets.* A decade on, her father let slip the truth: the kitten had been too ill to save, despite their efforts. The memory still left a bitter taste.
Even Emmas friends knew of Doras stinginess. Once, while carol-singing, they stopped by her aunts. She scurried about for ten minutes before handing them a bag of ancient sweets.
* Ugh, these are vile,* one girl grimaced outside. * Shes trying to poison us.*
The sweets were a masterclass in disgustchalky, stale, with bitter coffee beans inside. Clearly, theyd been buried in a cupboard for years.
Emma burned with shame. Why *should* she, though?
It never got better. If Dora turned up for holidays (which she nearly always did), she came armed with Tupperware.
* Oh, pack me some of that pie, would you?* shed wheedle. * Just to take to Vicky and Alice, since they couldnt make it. And some meat, if theres spareweve not had proper meat in months. Prices these days!*
Natasha would beam, piling her plate high. * Like it? Bring them next weekendIve not seen Alice in ages.*
Restaurants? Dora would box up leftoverseven asking other diners if theyd finished.
Family gatherings were a litany of moaning: prices, wages, taxes. So imagine the shock when Dora bragged about buying a *second flat* in another city.
* Propertys just as dear there, but rents higher,* shed say smugly. * A pain to travel, but Ive two friends keeping an eye on it.*
Meanwhile, Emmas parents had been scrimping for a *decade* just to afford home repairs. Their “poor relation” was leagues richer.
At fifteen, Emma and her father *relieved* when Dora moved to that very flatAlice was at uni, and shed tagged along. But *Natasha* was heartbroken.
* Shes still my sister* shed sigh.
Now, seven years later, Dora was *back.* Empty-handed, as everno cake, no flowers, not even a cheap supermarket swiss roll. Yet she sat at the table like royalty, expecting service.
Timing? Impeccable. Early Marchjust before Womens Day. Dora had a nose for freebies.
She hadnt changed. *Emma* had. No longer a timid girl hoping for kindness, shed resolved *not* to congratulate Dorascandal be damned.
Her father, once Dora was out of earshot, gave a thumbs-up. *Well done.* Her mother sighed and called everyone to dinner.
Dora, of course, slunk in at the smell of roast turkey, lips pursed, legs crossedlike she was doing them a *favour.*
Emma decided to twist the knife. Her birthday was nearing, and shed no patience for Doras whinging about petrol prices.
* Mum, about my birthday*
Dora *perked up.* Where there was a party, there was free food.
* Oh, its your birthday? When?* she cooed.
* Day after tomorrow.*
* Really? Id forgotten! Well, well all celebrate, then? Properly! Then Ill head home.*
The greed in her voice was *palpable.* She was already mentally portioning out leftovers.
* Cant. Celebrating with friends this year. You dont mind, Mum?*
Doras smile *froze.* The spark died in her eyes. No profit hereonly loss. (Though knowing her, shed *still* skip sending a gift.)
Her father watched, amused.
* Oh, youth forgetting us old folk,* her mother fretted. * But do visit. Ill cook something.*
* Actually could you *help* me? Im swampedno weekends for *weeks.* Four of us could tidy and cook quick. Then Ill visit Sunday.*
Dora *flinched,* eyes darting between them. Emma bit back a smirk.
* Of course, love. Well help. Though dont rely on Dadhis backs playing up*
Her father, escorting Emma out, saw through it. * Youre serious about this?*
* No. But they dont need to know,* she whispered, winking.
Emma expected Dora to feign illness. She *knew* hershed never lift a finger unpaid. But the result was *better.* Next day, her father rang:
* Youve saved us.*
Dora had *left.* Just before the holiday, in a flurry, barely saying goodbye. Her mother weptthen admitted she was *tired* of her sisters miserly ways.
Everyone got what they deserved. Dora, her greed. Emma, her familys supportand newfound self-respect. She hoped Doras next visit would be *years* away.
And if not? Well. Thered *always* be work to do.
**Lesson learned:** Blood ties dont excuse selfishness. Sometimes, the kindest thing is to stop indulging it.
