**Two Ungrateful Daughters**
The kitchen was warm, the scent of tea lingering in the air. Their mother leaned forward, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
“You know why we bought that three-bed flat, dont you? Were renting it out to studentsfive of them, paying handsomely. Enough to keep us comfortable in retirement.”
Emily nodded, genuinely pleased for them. Her parents had worked tirelessly their whole lives; they deserved this. But then her father, Robert Whitmore, folded his newspaper with deliberate slowness.
“Of course, we know what youre thinking,” he said, voice dry. “Wholl inherit it? Three childrenbound to be on your minds. Perfectly natural.”
Emily shook her head. The thought hadnt even crossed hers. But her mother, Margaret, cut in, her tone laced with something sharp.
“Oh, dont play coy! Youve thought about it. Worried, havent you?”
Emily opened her mouthbut Margaret wasnt finished.
“Weve decided. The flat goes to whichever of you cares for us best. Fair, dont you think?”
Silence. Emily stared, stomach sinking. Was this some sort of competition? Her father cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes.
“Weve given you everything. Now its your turn to prove yourselves. And if were not satisfied?” He paused. “No inheritance.”
Emily sat stunned. They watched her, expectant, as if waiting for applause. The air thickened. She mumbled something about an appointment and fled.
On the bus home, her thoughts spun. What was that? Some twisted auction? Who could grovel hardest? She dialled her sister Charlotte.
“Char, you wont believe what they just said”
“The flat? The *conditions*?” Charlottes voice was bone-tired. “They hit me with it yesterday. Im still reeling.”
“What do we do?” Emily pressed the phone closer, the bus rattling around her.
“No idea. Weve *always* helped them. Groceries, bills, dropping everything when they call. And our darling brother, Tom? Too busy with work, his girlfriendalways some excuse.”
Emily stepped off at her stop. “How do they even measure who cares *more*? A bloody scoreboard?”
Charlotte laughed darkly.
“Pretty much. Maybe its for the best. Well finally see where we stand. Though I think I already know wholl *win*.”
The weeks that followed were torture. Calls came daily. The first rang late on a Wednesday.
“Emily, love,” Margarets voice was honeyed but firm. “We need a lift to the doctors tomorrowand the shops after. Your cars fixed, isnt it?”
She had a critical meeting at nine.
“Mum, cant you take a cab?”
“A *cab*? Are we strangers to you?” Margarets outrage crackled down the line. “Is this how little we mean?”
Emily caved. She drove them, listening to endless praise for Tom*their golden boy*.
Friday. Buried in quarterly reports, her phone buzzed. Her father this time.
“Emily, furnitures arrived. Need help shifting it. Delivery men charge a fortune.”
“Dad, Im at work”
“Work? More important than your own parents?”
She left under her bosss disapproving glare, heaving boxes until her back screamed.
Sunday. A rare spa appointmentcanceled. Margarets voice chirped through the phone.
“Emily, the house needs a deep clean. Curtains down, chandeliers washed. We cant manage alone.”
She spent the day scrubbing, listening to more tales of Toms *devotion*.
“Toms so thoughtful,” Margaret sighed, sipping tea while Emily scoured the oven. “Called us for *hours* yesterday.”
“When did he last *help*?” Emily snapped, straightening.
Her parents exchanged glances. Margarets lips thinned.
“Mind your tone. Toms busy*important* work. Not like you girls. Youre *supposed* to help. Its your *duty*.”
Emily bit back fury.
A week later, she stood in their kitchen again, sealing jars of pickles. Her parents supervised.
“Less vinegar! More dill!” Margaret ordered.
“Tom *adores* these,” Robert mused. “Hell be thrilled.”
“Whens he visiting?” Emily twisted another lid.
“Not sure hasnt been round in a month,” Margaret admitted.
Emily stopped. Wiped her hands. Turned.
“So the flat goes to Charlotte and me, then? Since were the only ones *actually* helping?”
Margarets face purpled. She shot up, tea sloshing.
“You selfish girl! Moneys all you care about! Toms the *heir*! Hell bring a wife homeits *his* by right!”
Something in Emily shattered. Years of sacrificemeaningless. She unhooked her apron. Turned.
“Then *he* can help you.”
Her parents gaped.
“Emily, wait! Youre overreacting!” Robert called.
“The picklesyou cant leave them!” Margaret wailed.
Emily paused at the door. Not angry. Just *done*.
“Im busy. Like Tom. Find someone else.”
Outside, she called Charlotte.
“Char, Im out. No more.”
“What happened?”
Emily relayed it all. Charlotte exhaled hard.
“Lets play Toms game. If hes the heir, *let him care*.”
And so they did. Calls went unanswered. Excuses mirrored Toms. Margaret fumed. Robert blustered.
“Toms your heir,” Emily would say calmly. “*He* can help.”
A month later, Emily walked through the park, autumn leaves crunching underfoot. She breathed deep. Smiled.
Her phone buzzed. *Mum*. She silenced it.
Let them call Tom.
She was done.
