Why Should I Feel Sorry for You? You Never Pity Me,” Responded Tasha

13November2025

I cant help but wonder why I should ask for your pity when you never gave me any. Those were the words Emily murmured the day after my mothers death.

The final year of my mothers illness saw her confined to the ward in Leeds. While she lay in the hospital, Emily stayed at home with meher stepfather, Uncle Mike. I was often out of the house, leaving at seven in the morning and not returning until eight oclock in the evening. In practice, Emily was left to fend for herself.

I gave her a few shillings each week so she could buy a school lunch. With the remainder she scraped together a pot of spaghetti, some buckwheat, potatoes, and occasionally a cheap packet of sausages, which she turned into a simple supper.

One chilly evening at the end of November, Emily returned from school to find me sitting at the kitchen table, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the floor. When she stepped in, I lifted my head and said,

Emily, theres no more mother for us.

She said nothing and slipped into her bedroom. At thirteen she understood that the illness that had taken her mother was likely to claim her as well, yet a small, stubborn hope lingered that her mother might somehow survive.

We had once dreamed together that she would finish Year9 and then enroll at the nursing college. Her mother used to say, Your heart is kind, Emily; youll be a wonderful nurse.

The next day, relatives began to arrive: Aunt Vera, Aunt Valerie and Aunt Susan, who lived in the countryside. They moved from room to room, rummaging through my wifes belongings and preparing a modest evening meal. Emily sat on her bed, watching a plate of mashed potatoes and a meatball being set before her, but she didnt touch it.

The funeral attracted three other women and two men I had never seen before. As soon as we were all seated, the question of Emilys future was thrust upon us.

I wasnt married to Kate, I began, we merely lived together, so Im not her legal father. This flat must be vacated in two weeks; a onebedroom isnt enough for me alone. Ill find something smaller. Who will take Emily in?

A heavy silence fell. The three sisters of the deceased and the two aunts stared at each other. Finally Aunt Vera spoke:

Kate was your sister, Vera, so you have a duty to look after her child.

Does it matter that we only called each other on birthdays and at New Year? I retorted. I dont even know whose father she is, and I have three boys of my own to house.

Aunt Susan was asked if she could take Emily. She replied, Im struggling financially, but the state would pay a caretakers allowance and a mothers pension for Emily. My own daughter, Christabel, is twelve; the two of them could keep each other company.

I cant, said Aunt Valerie. My husband Pavel and I have just moved in together. I told Christabel to stay quiet, and youre trying to thrust a stranger on me.

Aunt Susan responded, I dont need any money. Why cant you, Valerie, take her yourself?

Im disabled, Valerie answered, they wont let me adopt. Im also the oldest, so caring for a child would be too much.

The discussion dissolved without a decision. Emily, in the next room, listened to the bargaining and felt the cold indifference of the relatives. When they finally dressed to leave, Aunt Susan remarked, If this flat were owned, not rented, we might have found a solution, but now well just lose more than we gain, and the inspections will be a nightmare.

In the end, the council placed Emily in the local childrens home. As I handed her over to the care staff, I said, Dont hold a grudge against me; our paths now diverge.

The following day a tall girl with a mass of curly hair approached Emily.

Are you new here? she asked. Whats your name?

Emily, she replied.

You neednt be afraid. The staff here are decent, and the few who arent will never hurt us. The worst thing is being alone.

Ive been here a month, the girl said. Lets stick together; itll be easier. My names Lucy.

Are your parents gone? Emily asked.

No, theyre alive, but theyve lost their parental rights. Theyve taken me and my three brothers here.

Lucky you have brothers, Emily said.

It would be better if I didnt, Lucy answered. The youngest, Wolf, is still a child, but the older two have beaten me all my life, forced me to cook and wash while Mum could barely stand.

How old are you? Emily asked.

Thirteen years and three months, Lucy answered. I thought you were older.

No, were all tall in my familygrandfather, father, brothers.

Lucy and Emily stuck together until they finished Year9.

In that final year they often talked about their futures.

I want to go to nursing college, Emily said one afternoon. Mother and I dreamed of it. I just dont know if Ill make it.

Why not? Lucy replied. You get As in chemistry and biology. Your results will have at most two Bs. Besides, we have some benefits, though youll get in without them too.

What about you? Do you still plan to be a chef? Emily asked.

Im training as a pastry chef, Lucy said. I want to bake cakes as light as clouds.

Do you remember when Aunt Natalie took us to that vocal competition? We won and were on TV, Emily recalled.

Yes, then we went to a café and Aunt Natalie bought us coffee with those airy pastries.

Emily secured a place at the nursing college and turned out to be one of the top students in her cohort. In her final year she was allocated a modest flat with the simplest of fittings. It was the first time since her days in the childrens home and the college dormitory that she had a room to call entirely her own, with a private kitchen and bathroom.

She tried to make it cosy: light curtains, a blooming geranium on the sill, a bright tablecloth, two redandwhitepolkadot pots, and a few extra pieces of crockery. It was humble, but it was home.

One afternoon, just after her shift at the childrens hospital where she worked parttime as a ward aide, Emily was walking toward the wardrobe to change when a voice called her name.

It was Aunt Susan, her mothers second cousin, the same woman who had refused to take her in.

Emily, hello! Do you remember me?

I do, Emily replied. Youre my mothers cousin.

I heard from Christabel that a girl named Emily Pomeroy won a competition at her college, Susan said. I came to see if were really related.

Im not surprised; the Pomeroy name isnt that common, Emily answered. But Ive got my own life now.

I understand youve got a flat, Susan continued. I have a small favour to ask. Christabel is only in her second year; she still has two years left, and the dorm mates are a nightmare. Could she stay with you until she graduates? Well split the rent and bring the groceries.

No, Emily said firmly.

Come on, youve always been a good girl! Dont you feel sorry for your sister?

Im not the sweet girl I once was, Emily snapped. And I dont feel sorry for Christabel. None of you cared enough to keep me in your homes. If you think I should feel pity, think again.

Ive lived in a childrens home, in a dorm, and survived, she added. Christabel will survive too.

We reached the bus stop. Emily boarded the number24 bus, the doors shutting behind her. Susan stood watching the vehicle pull away for a few minutes, then turned and walked away.

Tonight, as I sit at my kitchen table, the echo of that encounter still rings in my ears. I have learned that compassion must be earned, not imposed, and that the hardest lessons often come from those who once turned away.

Lesson: kindness is a choice we make each day; if we let bitterness dictate our actions, we lose the chance to truly help anyone, including ourselves.