We hate her the instant she steps over the threshold of our house.
Her jacket is plain, but her hands look nothing like Mums. Her fingers are shorter and thicker, clenched into fists, while her legs are slimmer and her feet longer.
Harry, my sevenyearold brother, and I, nine, sit on the sofa and flick bolts of electricity at her with our imaginations. Long Emma is a mile, not a little Emma! I shout. Dad notices our rudeness and snaps, Behave yourselves! What are you, uncouth?
Is she staying long? Harry asks, his tone demanding. Hes allowed to speak like that; hes still a boy.
Forever, Dad answers.
I hear his irritation brewing. If he loses his temper, well be in real trouble, so we try not to provoke him. An hour later Emma gathers her things to leave. As she slips on her shoes, Harry tries to trip her. She nearly tumbles down the hallway.
Dad rushes over, What happened?
I just tripped over another pair of shoes, Emma says without looking at Harry.
Its all over, he promises, ready to clean it up.
We realise he cares for her. No matter how hard we try, we cant erase her from our lives.
One afternoon, with Dad away, Emma, fed up with our antics, tells us in an even tone, Your mother has died. Unfortunately, that happens. Shes now on a cloud, watching everything. Im sure she disapproves of how you behave. She knows youre acting out of spite, preserving her memory.
We pause.
Harry, Lucy, youre good kids! Do you really think protecting mums memory means being prickly like hedgehogs? A good person is judged by deeds, not by being sharp! she says. Her words slowly curb our desire to be nasty.
Later I help her unload groceries from the shop. Emma pats my back and thanks me, saying my fingers may not be Mums but theyre still nice. Harry feels a twinge of jealousy.
She praises the clean mugs I place on the shelf, and later that evening she tells Dad loudly, Were such helpful children! He smiles.
Her foreignness keeps us on edge for a long time; we want to let her in, but we cant. It isnt Mums fault, after all. A year passes and we cant remember life without her. After one incident we fall headoverheels for Emma, just like Dad did.
In seventh form, Harry has a rough time. A bully named Victor Hargreaves, the same height but far braver, constantly picks on him. Victors family is solid; his father openly tells him, Youre a man, take them on. Dont wait for anyone to push you around. Victor sees Harry as an easy target.
Victor starts assaulting Harry openly, striking his shoulder every time he passes. I manage to coax the details from Harry after seeing bruises. He believes men shouldnt dump their problems on sisters, even older ones. Unbeknownst to us, Emma lurks behind the door, listening.
Harry begs me not to tell Dad, fearing things will get worse. He also pleads with me not to go and scratch Victors face right thenthough Im itching to stand up for my brother. Involving Dad would only bring Victors father and possibly jail.
Tomorrow is Friday. Emma, pretending to go to the supermarket, leads us to school and secretly asks me to show Victor where she is. I do, and she mutters, You fool!
The next lesson is English. Emma walks into the classroom, hair neatly done, nails painted, voice sweet, and asks Victor Hargreaves to step out because she has business with him. The teacher, none the wiser, allows it. Victor, thinking Emma is a new organizer, leaves calmly.
Emma grabs Victors shirt, lifts him off the floor and hisses, What do you want from my son?
My son? Which son? he stammers.
My son, Harry Ryeburn!
He gulps, Nothing
I want nothing! If you lay a hand on my brother again, come any closer, or look at him the wrong way, Ill kill you, you bastard!
Please, Auntie, let me go, Victor whines. I wont do it again!
Out you go! Emma snaps, And if you say anything about me, Ill have your father locked up for abusing a minor. Got it? Tell the teacher Im your neighbour and youll apologize to Harry after school. Ill see to it myself.
Victor scurries back to his desk, adjusting his blazer, muttering about a neighbour. He never looks at Harry the same way again; he even avoids him. He apologises later that day, short and shaky, but he does.
Emma tells us, Dont tell Dad, but we cant hold it in and spill everything. He is thrilled.
At some point Emma steers both of us onto the right path. I fall for a reckless love at sixteen, hormones blinding my judgment. I get involved with an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist, oblivious to the obvious. He tells me Im his muse while I melt in his arms like candle wax. Its my first real encounter with a man.
My mum visits the pianist and asks, Does he ever sober up, and how will we survive? With a solid plan, she promises to think about our future, provided the pianist takes responsibility for my upkeep. One flat isnt enough for serious intentions.
Hes five years younger than Emma, and twentyfive years older than me. She doesnt bother with formalities. I wont recount the pianists answers here; its too embarrassing for Mum, especially when she says, I thought you were smarter.
That love story ends ugly and abruptly, but neither the pianist nor Dad ends up in prisonEmma steps in just in time.
Years have passed. Harry and I now have families built on love, respect, and looking out for each other when someone errs. Those values were taught to us by Emma.
Theres no woman in the world who would do more for us than she did. Dad is happy, wellkept, and loved.
Emma once suffered a family tragedy we never knew about; Dad never mentioned it. She fell for our Dad and left her husband. She had a son who died because of her husbands fault, and she could never forgive him.
We like to think we eased some of Emmas pain. Her huge role in our upbringing is never, ever downplayed. Our whole family gathers around her. We never know exactly how to please Emma, which slippers to put on her feet, but we cherish and protect her.
Because true mothers, even when faced with someones cruel footstep, never stumble themselves.
