Two Ungrateful Daughters

“We didnt buy that three-bed flat for no reason, you know,” Mum leaned in, her eyes glinting with glee. “Were renting it out room by room to students. Five of them already! The incomes enough to keep us comfortable in retirement.”

Emily nodded, happy for them. Her parents had worked tirelessly their whole livesthey deserved an easy retirement. But then her father, William Hartley, whod been silently reading the paper at the table, cleared his throat.

“Now, we know what youre thinkingwhos getting the flat. There are three of you, after all. Perfectly natural to wonder,” he said, folding the newspaper.

Emily shook her head. The thought hadnt even crossed her mind. Her parents were alive and wellwhy worry about inheritance? But then her mother, Margaret, chimed in with a sneer that sent a chill down her spine.

“Oh, I bet youve thought about it! Wondering wholl get such a nice place. Dont deny it, love.”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but her mother cut her off.

“Well, your father and I have discussed it. The flat will go to whichever of you cares for us best. Fair, dont you think?”

Silence fell over the kitchen. Emily stared at them, stunned. Was this some kind of twisted competition? Her father coughed and continued, avoiding her eyes.

“Weve spent our lives looking after youfeeding you, raising you, sacrificing everything. Now its time for a change. Youll have to prove yourselves. And if were not satisfied…” He paused meaningfully. “Then youll get nothing.”

Emily sat there, numb. Her parents watched her expectantly, as if awaiting applause for their brilliant scheme. Her throat tightened. She stood, muttered something about urgent business, and hurried out.

On the bus home, her thoughts spun like a hamster on a wheel. What kind of auction was this? Who would bid the highest to win the flat? She fished out her phone and called her older sister, Charlotte.

“Charlie, you wont believe what Mum and Dad just said,” she blurted.

“About the flat and inheritance?” Charlotte sighed tiredly. “They told me yesterday. Im still in shock.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Emily pressed the phone closer, straining to hear over the bus noise.

“God knows. Weve always helped themgroceries, bills, running over whenever they called. And all this time, they were saving up for another flat. Meanwhile, our dear little brother, Oliver, was always ‘too busy’ with work or his love life.”

“How do they even plan to decide who cares best?” Emily stepped off the bus, still talking. “Will they score us? Make a chart?”

Charlotte let out a bitter laugh.

“Probably. Maybe its for the best. At least well know where we stand. Though I think we already know wholl win this little game.”

The following weeks became a nightmare. The calls from her parents came thick and fast. First, late on a Wednesday:

“Emily, darling, weve got an early doctors appointment tomorrow,” Mums voice was sharp. “And we need to stop at the shops. Could you drive us? Your cars fixed now, isnt it?”

Emily had a meeting at nine.

“Mum, cant you take a taxi?”

“What nonsense! A taxi? Are we strangers to you? Cant your own daughter help her parents?”

With a sigh, Emily gave in. As usual.

On Friday, as she hunched over a quarterly report at work, her father called.

“Sweetheart, weve got furniture being delivered. Need help carrying it in. Movers are too pricey these days. Six handsll do the trick.”

“Dad, Im at work”

“What kind of job wont let you help your parents?” His voice dripped with disapproval.

Again, she left early under her bosss glare, hauling furniture until her back ached for days.

On her day off, just as she booked a spa appointment, her mother rang.

“Emily, were doing a deep clean. Curtains down, chandeliers washed. Too much for us at our age…”

The spa was cancelled. Emily spent the day scrubbing floors while her parents sipped tea, gushing about Oliver.

“Ollies so thoughtful,” Mum cooed. “Called last nightwe chatted for ages!”

“When was the last time he actually helped?” Emily snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.

Her parents exchanged glances.

“Dont take that tone!” Mum pursed her lips. “Olivers busy. Hes got a demanding jobunlike you girls. Youre meant to be good wives and homemakers. Its your duty to help! Hes the man of the family.”

Emily clenched her teeth, swallowing her rage.

A week later, she was back at their flat, jarring pickles and tomatoes while they barked orders.

“Less vinegar! More dill!”

“Oliver loves pickles,” Dad mused. “Hell be thrilled when he visits.”

“When will that be?” Emily twisted another lid.

“Not sure… hasnt been round in a month,” Mum admitted reluctantly. “Very busy.”

Emily set down the jar, wiped her hands, and turned to them.

“So Charlotte and I get the flat, right? Since were the only ones helping?”

Mums face turned crimson. She jumped up, knocking over her tea.

“You selfish girl! So greedy! No thought for your brother! Hes the man! Hell bring a wife homehe needs the flat more! The inheritance goes to him! He carries the family name!”

Something inside Emily snapped. Years of obedience, sacrificeall for nothing. She untied her apron, turned off the stove, and left the half-filled jars on the table.

“The family name? What about us? Weve always been here, always helped. But thats not enough, is it?”

She walked out.

Her parents scrambled after her.

“Emily, wait! Youve got it all wrong!” Dad pleaded.

“The pickles! Finish them! Wholl clean this up?” Mum shrilled.

Emily paused at the door, exhausted.

“Im busy. Like Oliver. Find someone else.”

She left.

Outside, she called Charlotte.

“Charlie, Im done.”

“What happened?”

Emily told her. Charlotte was silent, then sighed.