“Don’t worry, I won’t overstay. Just a week or so, till I sort out a place. You won’t turn me out, I hope?” said the sister.
Margaret set breakfast on the table and went to wake her granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny loved her morning lie-ins.
“Jen, up you get. You’ll be late for uni.”
Jenny mumbled something and pulled the duvet over her head.
“Up all night on the computer again? If you went to bed at a decent hour, mornings wouldn’t be such a struggle. I’m not letting you off. Up.” Margaret tugged the covers away.
“Nana…” Jenny groaned indignantly but sat up anyway, stretching her arms high, swaying on her slender legs.
“Get a move on, your tea’s going cold,” Margaret hurried her before leaving the room.
“Ugh, I’m so sick of everything,” Jenny muttered under her breath, shuffling after her.
“I heard that. Who’s sick of you, then? Me, is it?” Margaret stopped abruptly, sending Jenny stumbling into her. “Say it again and I’ll take it to heart. Don’t like it? You can go live with your mother.”
“Sorry, Nana.” Jenny pecked Margaret’s cheek and darted to the bathroom.
“Little fox,” Margaret shook her head. “Just another ordinary morning in an ordinary life. And before you know it, it’s all gone,” she thought suddenly. “I’ll send Jenny off to uni, then settle down to work. Thank goodness for remote jobs. The pension alone wouldn’t keep us.”
She sat at the table and picked at yesterday’s leftover bake.
“Nana, I told you, I don’t eat breakfast, let alone this stodgy stuff,” Jenny’s voice carried from behind her. “I’ll have tea, but not that.” She plopped down opposite, shooting Margaret a defiant look.
“Fine, I’ll wrap a slice for you. Skin and bones, you are. Eat it, I mean it. You’ll be starving by evening.”
Jenny sighed and took a grudging bite of the rectangular slab of bake, looking as if she were chewing on a toad.
Same routine every morning. Coaxing, bargaining, just to get an extra bite into the girl. This ridiculous obsession with being thin.
“That’s better.” Margaret took her own cup and the empty plate—lest Jenny sneak her half-finished portion onto it—and piled them in the sink.
Her granddaughter swallowed the last bite, drained her tea in one go, and slipped away from the table.
Before Margaret could finish washing up, a rustling came from the hallway. She hurried over.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop fussing, I’m not a child. Look, I’m dressed fine, see?” Jenny zipped up her jacket and looped a scarf around her neck. Anticipating the next order, she added stubbornly, “Not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t dawdle, or I’ll worry. And worrying at my age isn’t good for me,” Margaret called after the already retreating figure.
With a sigh, she locked the door and headed to Jenny’s room. Unmade bed again. Trying to change that was as pointless as forcing her into a hat. Even if she did wear one, it’d be stuffed into her bag the moment she stepped outside. “Ah well, who else will spoil her if not her nana?” Margaret thought, smoothing out the duvet.
She went to her own room and sat at the computer. When the doorbell rang, she checked the clock—noon. Rubbing her tired eyes, she took off her glasses. The bell sounded again, longer, more insistent.
Margaret opened the door to find a well-groomed woman of indeterminate age, dressed expensively, lips stretched in a smile under garishly red lipstick. She froze in shock. The woman said nothing. Recognition came more as a slow dawning than a bolt.
“Laura?!” she gasped.
The woman’s smile widened, revealing teeth too white and even to be real.
“I was waiting to see if you’d remember me,” said the sister. “Can I come in? Or am I stuck on the doorstep?” She hefted a suitcase and a bulky holdall.
“Come in.” Margaret stepped aside, still reeling. “Where’ve you come from?”
“Where d’you think?” Laura wheeled the suitcase in, setting the holdall down and nearly filling the tiny hallway.
“Decided to come home. Had enough of foreign parts. Time to call it a day. Still the same old place, I see.” Her sharp eyes took in the peeling wallpaper, the scuffed linoleum.
“For good?” Margaret edged past to shut the door.
“Don’t fret, I won’t outstay my welcome. Just till I sort out a place. You won’t turf me out, eh?” Not a question, a statement. “Still single, then?” Laura croaked a laugh at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni now.”
“Blimey, all grown up. And your daughter?”
“Married, living on her own.” Margaret headed to the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on. Sorry, wasn’t expecting you—just leftovers from yesterday’s bake. Fancy some?”
“Need you ask?” Laura smirked.
***
They’d never been close, the ten-year age gap didn’t help. Folks say sisters spend their whole lives arguing over who their parents loved more. Laura had always treated the younger one with condescension, her whole manner saying, “Didn’t ask for you to be born.”
Margaret believed their parents had loved Laura more—she’d hogged all the attention, all the new clothes. Hand-me-downs for Margaret. The rows were constant.
“Mum! She took my jumper without asking, stained it!” Laura would shriek, rushing for school.
“Did not! It’s three sizes too big on me. You stained it yourself, don’t pin it on me. Just want a new one, don’t you?” Margaret would fire back.
Laura would lunge, fists flying, Margaret ducking behind their mother.
“Enough! I’ll buy you another, just stop scrapping,” Mum would promise.
Exactly what Laura wanted. She’d gloat, sticking her tongue out before flinging the old jumper at her sister.
When Laura married straight out of school, Margaret rejoiced. Now everything would be hers. Not so. Laura still turned up, wheedling money—for a coat, for boots, always the latest, priciest fad. Mum always coughed up. Never enough left for Margaret.
A year later, Laura divorced and wed a Londoner. Visits grew rare, but money didn’t. Margaret suspected Mum sent cash by post.
With husband number two, Laura lasted longer—until she dumped him for some actor pretty-boy.
Then the Union crumbled, borders opened. The actor—unappreciated at home—fled abroad, wound up pumping petrol. Laura couldn’t stomach it. Traded him in for an elderly but loaded Swede.
Calls home were few. “Alive, healthy, can’t chat—too dear.”
Hard times followed. Dad couldn’t adapt, took to drink, lost his job, died in a brawl. Mum never recovered. Margaret finished school, scraped into uni for economics.
When Laura next called, Mum begged for help.
“Can’t. Husband controls the money. Won’t part with a penny.”
She never rang again. Mum died within the year. Margaret called Laura herself, got the husband instead. His Russian was patchy. Laura missed the funeral.
Now, out of nowhere, like a bolt from the blue. Thirty years? More? Childhood grudges festered into adult ones. The reunion was frosty. Both had grown used to life apart.
Over tea, Laura confessed: when her husband died, his family kicked her out. The will left everything to his ex and their daughter. Penniless, she’d lingered abroad before crawling home.
“After Mum died, I married, had a child. Don’t even recall why we split. My girl followed your path—knocked up young, quick divorce. Remarried now, doing fine. But Jen and her stepdad never clicked. They’ve their own lives, we’ve ours,” Margaret shared in turn.
“I’ll never forgive you for not helping when we needed it. Not even coming to Mum’s funeral,” she added bitterly.
“Think I had it easy? Miserly husband, no money, left with nothing. Scraped together the fare,” Laura defended.
“Why no calls? I thought you were dead.”
“Still here, aren’t I?” Laura grinned, lips blood-red.
After tea, she retired to Jenny’s room—their old childhood space. Margaret couldn’t focus on work. Passing the hallway, she glared at the luggage, barely resisting the urge to kick it. A lifetime’s worth of grudges simmered.
“Nana, is she staying? Not giving up my room,” Jenny declared that evening, no happier about their sudden guest.
Three weeks passed. Laura lived like a houseguest—no cooking,”At the funeral, Margaret placed a single red rose on Laura’s grave, finally letting go of the past as the wind carried away the last of their unspoken words.”
