The Two Ungrateful Daughters
“We didnt buy that three-bed flat for nothing, you know,” Mum leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “We rent it out to studentsby the room. Five of them already! The moneys enough to keep us comfortable in retirement.”
Emma nodded, genuinely pleased for them. Her parents had worked tirelessly their whole livestheyd earned this. But then her father, James Whitmore, whod been silently reading his newspaper at the table, finally spoke.
“Bet youve already wondered wholl inherit it, eh?” He folded the paper deliberately. “Three kidsof course youre thinking about it. No shame in that. Perfectly natural.”
Emma shook her head. The thought hadnt even crossed her mind. Her parents were alive and wellwhy worry about inheritance now? But her mother, Margaret, cut in with such a mocking tone that Emmas stomach dropped.
“Course youve thought about it! Worried wholl get such a windfall. Dont lie, love!”
Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Margaret steamrolled over her.
“Your dad and I have talked it over. The flat goes to whoever looks after us best. Fairs fair, isnt it?”
The kitchen fell silent. Emma stared at them, stunned. Was this some kind of twisted competition? Her father cleared his throat, eyes fixed somewhere above her head.
“We spent our lives raising you, feeding you, sacrificing everything. Time for a change. Youll prove yourselvesshow us what youre worth. And if we dont like what we see” He let the pause linger. “Well, dont expect a penny.”
Emma sat there, shell-shocked. They watched her expectantly, as if waiting for applause. Her throat tightened. She muttered something about an errand, stood abruptly, and hurried out.
On the bus ride home, Emma couldnt shake it. Her thoughts spun like a hamster on a wheel. What kind of auction was this? Who would bid highest for the flat? She pulled out her phone and dialed her older sister, Sophie.
“Soph, you wont believe what Mum and Dad just said.”
“About the flat and inheritance?” Sophie sighed wearily. “They hit me with it yesterday. Still reeling.”
“What do we even do now?” Emma pressed the phone closer, straining to hear over the bus noise.
“No clue. Weve always helpedgroceries, bills, running over at a moments notice. Meanwhile, our darling brother Toms always too busywork, girlfriend, whatever.”
Emma stepped off at her stop, still talking. “How are they even judging who cares best? A bloody points system?”
Sophie gave a bitter laugh.
“Pretty much. Maybe its for the bestfinally see where we stand. Though I think we both know wholl win”
The next weeks became a nightmare. Calls from their parents came relentlessly. Late Wednesday, the first demand hit.
“Emma, love, weve got a hospital visit tomorrowneed you to drive us. And stop by the shops after. Your cars fixed now, right?”
She had a crucial 9 AM meeting.
“Mum, cant you take a taxi?”
“What nonsense! Taxis? Are we strangers to you? Cant our own daughter help?”
Emma caved, as always. She took the morning off, ferried them around, and endured endless praise for Tom.
By Friday, as she hunched over quarterly reports at work, her father rang.
“Love, furnitures been delivered. Need help carrying it in. Movers charge a fortunesix handsll do.”
“Dad, Im at work”
“What jobs so important you cant help your parents?”
She left under her bosss disapproving glare. Her back ached for days.
On Sundayfinally booking a facialher mother called.
“Emma, deep clean today. Curtains down, chandeliers washed. Too much for us at our age”
The facial cancelled, she spent hours scrubbing their home while they sipped tea and gushed about Tom.
“Tommys so thoughtful,” Margaret cooed as Emma scraped burnt grease off the hob. “Called last nighttalked for ages!”
“When was the last time he actually helped?” Emma snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.
Her parents exchanged glances. Margaret pursed her lips.
“Watch your tone. Tommys busyproper job, not like you girls. Your dutys to look after us. Hes the man of the family.”
Emma bit back a retort, fury simmering.
A week later, she was back, jarring pickles for winter. Her parents supervised from the table.
“Less vinegar! More dill!” Margaret ordered.
“Tommy loves these,” James mused. “Be chuffed when he visits.”
“Whens that?” Emma twisted another lid shut.
“Dunno not seen him in months,” Margaret admitted. “Very busy.”
Emma stopped. Set the jar down. Turned slowly.
“So the flats mine and Sophs, then? Since were the only ones helping?”
Margarets face flushed crimson. She stood, knocking over her tea.
“You selfish girl! Money-grubbing, too! No thought for your brother!” Her voice rose shrilly. “Hes the man! Hell bring a wife home one dayhe needs that flat! The inheritance goes to him first! Hes the heirthe one who carries the name!”
Something in Emma broke. Years of obedience, sacrificemeaningless. She untied her apron, turned off the stove. Left half-finished jars on the table.
“An heir? And what are Soph and I? Chopped liver?” Her voice cracked. “Weve always been here. Always helped. But its never enough.”
She moved toward the door. They scrambled after her.
“Emma, wait! Youve got it all wrong!” James pleaded.
“And the pickles?” Margaret shrilled. “Finish them! Dont leave a mess!”
Emma paused in the doorway. No anger leftjust exhaustion.
“Im busy. Like Tom. Find someone else.”
She closed the door softly behind her. Outside, she called Sophie, who answered immediately.
“Soph, Im done,” Emma said, footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
“What happened?”
Emma summarised the heir speech. Sophie exhaled sharply.
“Right. If hes the golden child, let him deal with them. Well be the ungrateful daughters.”
“Exactly.”
A month later, Emma strolled through an autumn park, leaves crunching underfoot. Shed done more for herself in those weeks than in years.
Her phone buzzedMum. She glanced at the screen, slid it back into her pocket.
Let them call Tom. He was the heir, wasnt he?
She had herself to look after now.
