Guard of heart

The sister

After finally escaping the suffocating storeroom, I trudged upstairs, ready to tackle some overdue work. Supposedly, today was an “off” day, but that word felt laughable in this mansion. I settled at my desk, glancing at the clock before opening my laptop to write that long-overdue email. Mr. Wilkins expected everything saved and organized; I didn’t need another reminder of that.

With the email finally sent, I stared at the screen, feeling as though I had run out of excuses. My heart tightened as I reached for my phone. I hadn’t really spoken to Natasha in what felt like ages—just quick texts asking about her day, surface-level exchanges that did little to ease the weight of my guilt.

I pictured Dad still struggling in his wheelchair, stuck in the tiny house we grew up in, and the thought stung like a fresh wound. He had been so strong, so capable, his hands rough and calloused from years as a mechanic. Now, he hadn’t walked in twenty years. And after Mom… well, everything fell apart. Natasha had picked up the pieces, sacrificing her own dreams for ours.

Taking a deep breath, I dialed her number before I could hesitate. It rang once, twice, and I almost wished it would go to voicemail. But then her voice came through, bright and surprised.

“Elly? Is that really you?” Natasha’s warmth wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, mingling with the faint clatter of the bakery behind her—the rhythmic hum of ovens and the soft sound of cakes sliding into place. “Wow, a real phone call? Not just a hurried text? I must be dreaming!”

A small smile crept onto my face, despite the lump in my throat. “Hey, Nat. Yeah, it’s me. Figured it was time for a proper chat.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m at the bakery, but I’ve got a minute. What’s the occasion?” Her teasing tone carried an undercurrent of tiredness she was trying to mask.

I hesitated, glancing down at my lap. "Just… wanted to check in. How’s Dad doing?"

There was a slight pause, and I could hear her moving about, probably juggling customers while managing the call. “He’s doing alright,” she replied, though her voice softened as if trying to convince herself. “He loves the automatic wheelchair I got him with the money you sent last month. Says it makes life a bit easier.”

The guilt settled heavily in my chest. "That’s good to hear." But something in her tone felt off. Natasha had always excelled at hiding her feelings, but not from me.

“You know,” I said lightly, “you’re still a terrible actress.”

She chuckled, but it was soft, like laughter trying to keep its head above water. “Guess I never could pull one over on you, huh?”

“Not a chance,” I said, though the humor felt distant. "So… what’s really going on?"

Natasha sighed, and I could hear the sound of metal trays clattering in the background. “It’s just… Dad’s been having a harder time lately. He’s not sleeping well, and when he wakes up, he just stares out the window. Sometimes he talks to Mom like she’s still there. It’s… strange.”

My heart clenched. "Have you taken him to see a doctor?"

“I did,” she admitted, her voice steady but weary. “The doctor said it’s partly his age, partly... mental health. He doesn’t go out much anymore. He’s cooped up too much, and I think it’s getting to him. The doctor suggested more fresh air, walks outside. I’ve been trying to take him out when I can, but between work and everything else… it’s not always easy.”

I could hear the strain in her voice, and that familiar wave of guilt crashed over me again. Natasha had been carrying this weight for so long while I was here in a mansion, working for a powerful tycoon, and she was back home… holding everything together.