**Two Ungrateful Daughters**
«We didnt buy that flat just for the sake of it, you know,» Mum leaned in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. «The best part? We rent it out room by room to students. Five of them already! Were making enough that we wont have to worry about money in retirement.»
Emma nodded, happy for them. Her parents had worked tirelessly all their livesthey deserved a comfortable old age. But then her father, Richard Wilson, whod been silently reading his newspaper at the table, chimed in.
«Course, we know what youre thinkingwholl get the flat when were gone. Three children, and youre bound to wonder. Perfectly natural, just human nature,» he said, folding the paper.
Emma shook her head. The thought hadnt even crossed her mind. Her parents were alive and wellwhy would she think about inheritance? But her mother, Margaret, carried on with such pointedness that Emmas stomach turned cold.
«Oh, you *were* thinking about it! Worried wholl get such a windfall. Dont deny it, love!»
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but her mother cut her off.
«Well, your father and I have talked it over. The flat will go to whoever takes the best care of us. Fairs fair, isnt it?»
Silence fell in the kitchen. Emma stared at them, stunned. Was this some sort of competition? Her father cleared his throat and continued, looking past her.
«We spent our lives raising you, feeding you, denying ourselves for you. Now its time for a change. Show us what youre made of. And if were not satisfied…» He paused meaningfully. «…you cant expect a thing.»
Emma sat there, gobsmacked. Her parents watched her expectantly, as if waiting for applause. A lump formed in her throat. She stood, muttered something about an urgent errand, and hurried out.
On the bus home, she still couldnt make sense of it. Her thoughts spun like a hamster on a wheel. What was this? An auction? Whoever grovelled the most got the flat? Pulling out her phone, she dialled her older sister, Sophie.
«Soph, you wont believe what Mum and Dad just said,» Emma blurted.
«About the flat and inheritance?» Sophie sighed wearily. «They gave me the same speech yesterday. Im still reeling.»
«What do we do now?» Emma pressed the phone to her ear, straining to hear over the bus noise.
«No idea. Weve *always* looked after them. While they were saving for that flat, we paid for groceries, covered bills, dropped everything when they called.» Bitterness crept into Sophies voice. «Meanwhile, Tom, the little prince, was always *too busy*work, his love life, whatever.»
«And how are they even judging who cares more? Points system? Spreadsheet?»
Sophie let out a hollow laugh.
«Pretty much. Maybe its for the best. At least well know where we stand. Though Ive got a good guess wholl *win* this little contest…»
The next few weeks were torture. Calls from her parents came with relentless regularity. Late one Wednesday evening, the first demand arrived.
«Emma, love, weve got a favour to ask,» Mum said briskly. «We need a lift to the clinic tomorrow, and a quick stop at the shops. You *did* just get your car fixed, didnt you?»
Emma had a crucial meeting at nine a.m.
«Mum, cant you take a cab?»
«Dont be ridiculous! Cabs cost a fortune! Were not strangers, are we? Cant our own daughter help us out?»
With a sigh, Emma gave inagain. Next morning, she took time off work, ferried them around, and endured endless praise for their son, Tom.
On Friday, while buried in quarterly reports, her father rang.
«Love, the new furnitures arrived. Need help hauling it in. Movers charge an arm and a legsix hands make light work!»
«Dad, Im at work»
«Works no excuse to neglect your parents!» His disapproval was unmistakable.
Again, she left early, enduring her bosss glare, and spent the afternoon lugging furniture. Her back ached for days.
That weekend, finally booking a spa day for herself, Mum called.
«Emma, were doing a deep cleancurtains down, chandeliers scrubbed. Too much for us at our age…»
The spa was cancelled. Emma spent the day elbow-deep in soapy water, listening to endless tales of *Toms* virtues.
«Toms *so* thoughtful,» Mum cooed, sipping tea while Emma scoured the oven. «Called last nightwe chatted for ages!»
«And when was the last time *he* helped out?» Emma snapped, wiping sweat from her brow.
Her parents exchanged glances. Mum pursed her lips.
«Dont take that tone! Toms *busy*. His jobs demanding. Not like you girlsyoure meant to care for your parents. Its your *duty*. Hes a *man*.»
Emma clenched her teeth, swallowing the retort. Inside, white-hot fury simmered.
A week later, she was back at their flat, preserving pickles and tomatoes under their supervision.
«Less vinegar! More dill!» Mum ordered.
«Tom *adores* pickled cucumbers,» Dad mused. «Hell be thrilled when he visits.»
«*Whens* he visiting?» Emma twisted another jar shut.
«Dunno… hasnt been round in a month,» Mum admitted grudgingly. «*Very* busy.»
Emma set down the jar, wiped her hands, and turned to them. The dam broke.
«So the flat goes to me and Sophie, right? Since *were* the ones helping, and Toms *busy*?»
Mums face flushed crimson. She leapt up, knocking over her tea.
«You selfish little! Only thinking of yourself! Toms the *man*! Hell bring a wife homehe *needs* the flat! The inheritance goes to *him*! Hes the *heir*!»
Something in Emma shattered. Years of obedience, sacrificesall for nothing. Slowly, she untied her apron, turned off the stove. Half-filled jars sat abandoned.
«The *heir*? And what *are* Sophie and I? Weve always been heredropping everything, helping. But thats *not enough*?»
She moved toward the door. Her parents scrambled after her.
«Emma, stop! Youve got it all wrong!» Dad pleaded.
«Love, finish the pickles! You cant leave this mess!» Mum cried.
Emma paused at the door. No anger, no hurtjust exhaustion.
«Im busy. Like Tom. Find someone else.»
She left, shutting the door quietly. Outside, she called Sophie.
«Soph, Im done,» Emma said, footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
«What happened?»
Emma relayed the heir speech. Sophie exhaled heavily.
«You know what? Lets act like our *precious* brother. If hes the *heir*, *he* can play carer. Well be the ungrateful daughters.»
«Exactly what I was thinking,» Emma breathed in the crisp air.
From then on, they stuck to the plan. Every call, every demand*Sorry, ask Tom. Hes your heir.* Mum sulked. Dad fumed. No matter.
A month later, Emma strolled through the park, leaves crunching underfoot. She smiled.
Shed done *so much* for herself lately.
Her phone buzzedMum. Emma glanced at the screen and pocketed it.
Let them call Tom.
*He* was the golden child.
And she? She was finally free.
