**Diary Entry October 12th**
Mum leaned in, her eyes shining with excitement. “We didnt just buy that flat for no reason, you know. The best part? Were renting it out room by room to students. Five of them already! The income means well be comfortable in retirement.”
I nodded, happy for them. Mum and Dad had worked tirelessly their whole livesthey deserved an easier time now. But then Dad, Michael Whittaker, folded his newspaper and cleared his throat.
“Of course, we know what youre thinkingwho gets the flat. With three children, its natural to wonder. Perfectly normal.”
I shook my head. The thought hadnt even crossed my mind. They were healthy and happywhy worry about inheritance now? But Mum, Elizabeth, chimed in with such a sharp tone that my stomach dropped.
“Oh, youve thought about it, all right! Wondering wholl get such a windfall. Dont deny it, love.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but she cut me off.
“Dad and I have talked it over. The flat will go to whoever cares for us best. Fair, isnt it?”
Silence settled over the kitchen. I stared at them, stunned. Was this some sort of competition? Dad cleared his throat again, avoiding my eyes.
“Weve spent our lives looking after youraising you, feeding you, sacrificing for you. Now its time for things to change. Youll need to prove yourselves. And if were not satisfied…” He paused meaningfully. “Then you can forget about the flat.”
I sat there, speechless. They both watched me expectantly, as if waiting for applause. My throat tightened. I mumbled something about an urgent errand and left.
On the bus home, my thoughts spun like a hamster on a wheel. What was that? An auction? Whoever grovels hardest wins? I pulled out my phone and rang my older sister, Emily.
“Em, you wont believe what Mum and Dad just said.”
“About the flat and inheritance?” she sighed. “They told me yesterday. Im still in shock.”
“What do we do now?” I pressed the phone closer, straining to hear over the bus noise.
“No idea. Weve always helped themgroceries, bills, running over at every call. Meanwhile, our darling brother, James, is always too busy with work or his love life.”
“How are they even judging who cares more?” I stepped off the bus, still talking. “Will they tally points? Make a chart?”
Emily laughed bitterly. “Feels like it. Maybe its for the best. At least well see where we really stand. Though I think I know wholl win this little contest…”
The next few weeks were unbearable. The calls started almost daily. The first came late on a Wednesday.
“Emma, darling,” Mum said briskly. “Weve got a doctors appointment tomorrow, and we need to pop by the shops after. Could you drive us? Your cars fixed now, isnt it?”
I had a crucial meeting at nine. “Mum, cant you take a taxi?”
“Dont be ridiculous! Since when do we pay for taxis? Cant our own daughter help us?”
I sighed. As usual, I gave in. The next morning, I skipped work to ferry them around, listening to endless praise about how perfect James was.
Then, on Friday, mid-report, Dad called.
“Love, the new furnitures arrived. We need help carrying it in. Movers cost a fortune these days.”
“Dad, Im at work”
“What sort of job wont let you help your parents?” His disapproval was palpable.
Again, I left, earning glares from my boss. My back ached for days.
That weekend, just as Id booked a facial, Mum rang.
“Emma, we need a deep cleancurtains down, chandeliers washed. We cant manage alone at our age.”
I cancelled the appointment. Hours later, scrubbing their kitchen, I listened to more stories about James.
“Hes so thoughtful,” Mum gushed, sipping tea while I scoured the oven. “Called yesterday for a lovely long chat!”
“When was the last time he actually helped?” I snapped.
They exchanged glances. Mum pursed her lips.
“Dont take that tone. James has important work. Not like you girlshelping your parents is a daughters duty. Hes the man of the family.”
I bit back my anger.
A week later, I was back, canning pickles under their supervision.
“Less vinegar!” Mum ordered. “More dill!”
“James loves pickles,” Dad mused. “Hell be thrilled when he visits.”
“And when will that be?” I twisted another lid shut.
“Not sure… havent seen him in a month,” Mum admitted.
I stopped, wiped my hands, and faced them.
“So the flat goes to me and Emily, then? Since were the ones actually helping?”
Mum turned crimson, knocking over her tea. “You selfish girl! All you care about is yourself! James needs that flathell bring a wife home one day! The inheritance must go to him! Hes our heir!”
Something inside me shattered. Years of obedience, sacrificeall for nothing. I untied my apron and turned off the stove.
“Your heir? What are Emily and I, then? Weve always been here. But I suppose that doesnt count.”
I walked out. They scrambled after me.
“Emma, wait! Youve misunderstood!” Dad pleaded.
“Wholl finish the pickles?” Mum wailed.
I paused at the door. “Im busy. Just like James. Find someone else.”
Outside, I rang Emily.
“Em, Im done.”
She sighed. “Lets take a page from Jamess book. If hes the heir, let him be the carer, too.”
A month later, autumn leaves crunched underfoot as I strolled through the park. Id finally had time to breathe.
My phone buzzedMum. I silenced it. Let them call James. Hes the golden child.
For the first time, I was putting myself first. And it felt wonderful.
