Chapter 3 - The Chore List
I didn’t take Emily back to Mom’s house that afternoon.
There was nothing there that mattered more than getting my daughter home.
My sister offered to retrieve Emily’s backpack.
I refused.
“We’ll get it later.”
Mom called before I even pulled out of the gas station.
I ignored her.
She called again.
Then again.
On the fourth call, I turned my phone off.
Emily sat quietly beside me.
For several minutes, she stared through the passenger window.
Then she whispered, “Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“For leaving?”
“No.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You found a safe adult. That was exactly what you were supposed to do.”
She nodded.
A minute passed.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Am I lazy?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
“Grandma says I am.”
“Grandma was wrong.”
“What if I really am?”
I pulled into a parking lot and stopped the car.
I couldn’t have this conversation while driving.
I turned toward her.
“Emily, listening to your body when something is too heavy isn’t laziness.”
“But the boys could carry it.”
“They’re older and bigger.”
“They said I was weak.”
“You don’t have to prove your worth by hurting yourself.”
She stared down at her hands.
That was when I noticed red marks across her fingers.
“Let me see.”
She immediately pulled them away.
My heart jumped.
“Emily.”
“It’s just from the basket.”
I gently examined her hands.
The marks looked like pressure from plastic handles.
Nothing serious.
But seeing them made the entire situation feel more real.
“How many baskets did Grandma make you carry?”
She thought.
“Four.”
“Four?”
“And then Auntie said there were two more.”
I stared at her.
“What were the boys doing?”
“Watching TV.”
“And Auntie?”
“Cleaning the kitchen.”
“Did she tell her boys to help?”
Emily shook her head.
I already knew the answer.
But I needed to understand.
“Tell me everything from the beginning.”
She hesitated.
“Am I going to get anyone in trouble?”
That question hurt almost as much as the others.
“You’re not responsible for what adults do after you tell the truth.”
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she started talking.
The chore list had appeared that morning.
Emily’s name was written beside several tasks.
Laundry.
Picking up the boys’ room.
Sweeping.
Collecting dirty dishes.
Cleaning toys from the living room.
Meanwhile, her cousins had only two chores between them.
Take out the trash.
Feed the dog.
Neither had done theirs.
Instead, they teased Emily while she worked.
When she complained, Grandma accused her of having an attitude.
When she said it wasn’t fair, my sister told her life wasn’t fair.
Then came the laundry basket.
It was overloaded with clothes.
Emily tried lifting it.
She couldn’t.
The boys laughed.
One called her a baby.
The other called her a freeloader.
Grandma heard them.
She didn’t correct them.
Instead, she agreed.
“If you’re staying here, you contribute.”
Emily tried again.
Her hands hurt.
She put the basket down.
That was when Mom exploded.
Lazy children don’t deserve shelter.
Then she pointed toward the door.
I sat there listening while my daughter described walking outside.
“Did you think Grandma would let you back in?”
“At first.”
“What happened?”
“I waited.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone come outside?”
She shook her head.
“What did you do?”
“I sat near the driveway.”
“And then?”
“I thought maybe you really didn’t want me.”
I closed my eyes.
Those words cut straight through me.
“So I started walking.”
“Why toward the gas station?”
“You told me once that if I got lost, I should find someone working in a store.”
I remembered.
We had discussed it months earlier.
I had never imagined she would actually need that advice.
“You remembered my phone number too.”
She nodded.
“I practiced.”
I hugged her.
That evening, after Emily finally fell asleep on the couch beside me, someone knocked on the door.
It was my sister.
She held Emily’s backpack.
And a folded sheet of paper.
“I think you need to see this.”
I took it.
The chore list.
Emily’s name appeared again and again.
Her sons’ names barely appeared at all.
I looked up.
“You made this?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“I was frustrated.”
“With an eight-year-old?”
“With everything.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She sat down.
For the first time that day, she looked ashamed.
“Mom kept saying Emily was spoiled because you don’t make her do enough.”
“So you decided to prove her right?”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
She wiped her face.
“I thought if Emily helped more, Mom would stop complaining.”
“You sacrificed my daughter to keep Mom happy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you did.”
My sister started crying.
I felt no satisfaction.
Only exhaustion.
Then she said something unexpected.
“There’s something else.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The boys told me something after you left.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did they say?”
She unfolded another piece of paper.
This one wasn’t a chore list.
It was written in a child’s handwriting.
At the top were three words:
May you like
RULES FOR EMILY.
And underneath them were rules I had never known existed.
