We despised her the moment she crossed the threshold of our house. Her sweater was plain, but her hands were nothing like Mums the fingers were stubby and thick, clenched as if they were holding a secret. Her legs were slimmer, her feet longer than ours.
Jack, my brother, was seven; I was nine. We spent the afternoon hurling lightningbolt jokes at her. Long Emily is a mile long, not a mile short! we shouted, trying to sound clever. Dad caught on to our disrespect and snapped, Behave yourselves! How rude can you be?
What, is she staying for good? Jack asked, his tone dripping with the entitlement only a small boy can muster. Forever, Dad replied.
We could hear the tension building in his voice. If he lost his temper, wed be in real trouble, so we kept our mouths shut.
An hour later Emily gathered her things and headed for the door. As she slipped on her shoes, Jack tried to trip her. She nearly stumbled into the hallway. Dad rushed over, What happened?
I just caught my foot on the other shoe, she said, not looking at Jack. All right, Ill tidy up, he said eagerly, as if that would make up for everything.
In that moment we realised he cared for her. No matter how hard we tried, we couldnt push her out of our lives.
One afternoon, while Dad was at work, Emily sat with us and, in a deadpan voice, announced, Your mother has died. It happens, you know. Shes up in heaven, watching everything. Im sure she doesnt like the way youre behaving. She sees you acting out just to spite her memory.
We froze.
Jack, Lucy, youre decent kids! Is that really how you honour Mums memory? Good people are judged by their deeds, not by being prickly as hedgehogs! she went on, trying to turn our hearts. Her words slowly dulled our urge to be nasty.
Later I helped her unload the groceries from the supermarket. She praised me, brushed my back, and even though her fingers werent like Mums, it felt warm. Jack grew jealous. He set the clean mugs back on the shelf and Emily thanked him. That evening he bragged loudly to Dad about how helpful we were, and Dad beamed with pride.
Her foreignness kept us on edge for a long time. We wanted to let her in, but something always held us back. A year passed and we could no longer imagine life without her. After a particular incident we fell for Emily, oblivious to anything else, just as Dad had.
When Jack reached Year Seven, things got rough. A boy named Victor Hargreaves, the same height as Jack but far more brazen, started picking on him. Victor came from a solid family; his father encouraged him, saying, Youre a man now, give them a good thrashing. Dont let anyone push you around. Victor chose Jack as his favourite target.
Victor began to hit Jack openly, delivering blows each time he passed. I managed to coax the details out of Jack after spotting bruises on his shoulder. He believed men shouldnt dump their problems on their sisters, even older ones. Unbeknownst to us, Emily was listening from behind the door.
Jack begged me not to tell Dad, fearing the situation would worsen. He also pleaded with me not to go after Victor right then I could kill for my brother! he muttered. Involving Dad would only rope him into a feud with Victors father, and the next thing we knew wed be on a police stations doorstep.
The next day was Friday. Emily pretended she was heading to the shops, but she slipped us into school and, under the guise of a quick errand, asked me to point Victor out. Show him where he belongs, you fool! I whispered. The plan turned out to be rather theatrical.
During Jacks English lesson, Emily breezed into the classroom, hair perfectly styled, nails immaculate, voice honeyed, and asked Victor Hargreaves to step out because she needed to speak with him. The teacher, seeing no trouble, allowed it. Victor, thinking she was some new organiser, left the room obediently.
Emily grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off his seat and hissed, What do you want with my brother?
Your brother? What brother? he stammered.
My brother Jack Rybinski! she snarled.
He tried to backtrack, Nothing, I.
Emily snapped, Good, because if you lay a hand on my brother again, or look at him the wrong way, Ill smash you, you scoundrel!
Victor squealed, Please, my aunt, let me go. Ill never bother him again!
Emily shoved him out, Get out! And if you say another word about me, Ill have your father behind bars for corrupting a minor. Got it? Tell the teacher Im his neighbour and youll apologise to Jack after class. Ill see to it myself.
Victor scurried back to his desk, muttering about the neighbour. He never gave Jack another hard look after that. He even apologised the same day, short and nervous, but he did.
Emily urged us not to tell Dad, but we couldnt keep it in. We spilled everything, and Dad was thrilled with how Emily had stood up for us.
At some point she steered me onto the right path. I fell headoverheels at sixteen, drowning in a reckless love where hormones clouded reason and everything seemed forbidden.
Its embarrassing to recall, but Ill say it. I fell for a downandout, perpetually drunk pianist. He spun stories in my ears about being my muse while I melted in his arms like wax. It was my first real encounter with a man.
My mother once visited the pianist and asked two blunt questions: Do you ever stay sober, and how do we intend to make a living? With a solid life plan, she said shed consider supporting our relationship, provided he should take responsibility for my upkeep. One cramped, smokefilled flat wasnt enough to prove seriousness.
He was five years younger than Emily, while I was twentyfive years older than him. She didnt bother with formalities. I wont recount his answers, but Ive never felt more ashamed in front of Mum, especially when she told me, I thought you were smarter than this.
That love story ended badly and messily, but it never reached the prison gates for either the pianist or Dad. Emily intervened just in time.
Years have passed. Jack and I have families of our own, built on the values Emily instilled: love, respect and standing up for those you care about, even when theyre wrong. She was the woman who gave us more than any other could. Dad is happy, wellkept and loved.
Once, Emily suffered a family tragedy that none of us knew about. She lost a son to her husbands fault and could never forgive him. She eventually left him, and later fell for our Dad.
We like to think we eased some of Emilys pain. Her impact on our upbringing has never been downplayed. Whenever the family gathers, shes the centre, and we all try our best to keep her comfortable choosing the right slippers, treating her with the utmost care. Real mothers, even when faced with someones cruel foot, never stumble themselves.
