Right, so get this. Remember that doll my little sister Sophie had? The fancy porcelain one with golden curls? Well, one morning, I grabbed it, maybe just to wind her up, you know? She totally shrieks, “Don’t touch my doll!” and practically rips it out of my hands. “Mum! Emma’s taking my toys again!”
I just snapped back, “Oh, don’t be such a greedy toad!” but let it go. “Honestly, who does she think she is, the princess?”
Then Mum bustles out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Girls! What’s all this racket first thing? Emma, leave your sister be. You’ve loads of your own toys.”
“They’re all old rubbish, and hers are always new!” I shot back. “It’s not fair!”
“Because I’m the younger one,” Sophie declared smugly, hugging the doll. “Mum said so herself.”
I just clenched my teeth. Yeah, Mum *had* said that. Nana too. Auntie Lydia. Everyone constantly droned on: “Sophie’s little, let her have it,” “Sophie’s delicate, we need to protect her,” “Sophie’s such a sweet little thing.”
And me? Emma was big. Emma was strong. Strong enough to understand. Always expected to understand and give way.
“Breakfast,” Mum sighed. “Call your sister.”
School felt like a slight escape, but even there, Sophie haunted me. Mrs. Davies, my teacher, kept asking after her. “How’s little Sophie? Not poorly, is she? Starting Year One soon?” Once, after class, she asked, “And you, Emma love, helping your sister get ready for school?”
“Course I am,” I lied.
Truth was, I hated those study sessions. Sophie would whinge, refuse to learn letters, complain she was tired. Mum always jumped in: “Stop picking on her! Can’t you see she’s knackered?”
“Soph, look! That ‘A’ isn’t right!” I’d scold, rubbing out her squiggle. “Like *this*!”
“Don’t wanna!” she’d wail. “My hand hurts my hand hurts!”
“It does not! You’re just lazy!”
“Muuuum! Emma’s being horrible!”
And Mum, of course, told *me* off. Always told *me* off.
When Sophie finally started school, I hoped she’d finally get it – the slog, the effort, the disappointments. No chance. Sophie breezed through, got top marks consistently, PECs galore, and teachers worshipped her. “Your sister is such a bright spark!” my form teacher gushed. “A real high-flier. You should take a leaf out her book on how to study.”
I just stood there, fists balled. What could I say? That Sophie wasn’t clever, just lucky? That things landed in her lap while I had to cram all night for a decent GCSE grade?
No peace at home either. Sophie grew up stunning – fair hair, bright blue eyes, porcelain skin. The neighbours would gasp: “Oh, what a little poppet! A proper angel!”
Me? I was ordinary. Not ugly, not glamorous – just average. Brown hair, grey eyes. Millions like me.
“Our Sophie could be an actress,” Mum would muse dreamily, brushing her daughter’s hair. “Or a model. Waste *not* to make use of looks like that.”
I pretended not to hear, but every word stung. So… *my* looks weren’t worth using? So nothing decent would come of *me*?
“I want to be a doctor,” I mumbled once.
“A doctor?” Mum sounded surprised. “Well, if you manage it. You have to study hard.”
“*If* you manage it.” Not “You’ll do brilliantly” or “Of course you can,” but “*If*.” Like she didn’t really believe in me at all.
Meanwhile, Sophie just got prettier. By secondary school, boys buzzed around her constantly. She flirted, batted her eyelashes, got sweets and flowers. I watched, feeling that rotten mix of bitterness and the green-eyed monster.
“Look what Andrew gave me!” she chirped, spinning before the mirror. “Proper silver hoop earrings! Says they match my eyes!”
“Nice,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
I dreamed of presents and compliments too. But who’d notice a little grey mouse next to that sunshine?
“Why the long face, Em?” Sophie asked once, catching my mood. “Want me to pick you some earrings?”
“S’fine,” I clipped. I didn’t want hand-me-downs or pity. I wanted to be noticed, valued, loved. But where do you even find that?
After school, Sophie got into some fancy London drama school. Mum was over the moon. “Knew you’d be an actress!” she beamed. “So talented! So beautiful! You’ll be famous!”
Meanwhile, I was wrestling textbooks at med school. Brutal. Anatomy, physiology, chemistry – constant cramming. But I dug in. Doctor. Not a star like sis, but useful. Needed.
“How’s uni?” Mum would ask, but her eyes lit up for Sophie’s drama news.
“Alright.”
“Sophie rang! Landed the lead in her end-of-year show! First year! Imagine that!”
Yeah, I could imagine. Sophie always landed on top.
Years rolled by. Sophie *did* become an actress. Not Hollywood, but steady work in fringe theatre, the odd telly bit. Mum still swelled with pride: “Our daughter, the actress!” I became a GP, working a busy practice, treating people. Mum? Didn’t quite light up the same way.
“Sophie’s got a new telly part,” she’d tell her friends. “Going to be on screen! And Emma… well, Emma does her doctoring.”
I listened. Said nothing. My work mattered too? Saving lives, not just entertaining? Who cared?
Sophie married first, naturally. A handsome bloke from her theatre. Big white wedding, loads of guests. Mum gushed about her “wonderful son-in-law,” the “gorgeous couple.” Aunties would needle me: “What about you, Emma? Pushing thirty, still flying solo?”
I’d shrug. My love life *was* a barren field. No time? Wrong blokes? Or just… never believing I *was* lovable, trapped in my sister’s shadow?
Sophie had a daughter a year later. Sweet little thing, fair like her. Mum was besotted. “My granddaughter! My beautiful granddaughter! Spitting image of her mum!”
I looked at my niece and did wonder: would *her* kids (if I ever had any) live under this new little princess too?
Life, though, throws curveballs. Sophie’s marriage crumbled after three years. The actor husband was as shallow as he was handsome. Ran off with a drama student, leaving Sophie with their child.
“Can’t fathom it,” Mum wept. “Such a beautiful couple! Both so gifted!”
Sophie sobbed, called herself stupid, a failure. Quit the theatre – baby needed her, theatre wages didn’t cover bills. “What do I *do*?” she wailed. “I know nothing *but* theatre!”
I listened. Saw the reality beneath the shine. Beauty, talent, fame? Can vanish like mist. What was
As little Lily squeezed them both tightly, Alice finally understood that the years of bitterness had melted away, leaving only a quiet, unshakeable promise between them to be better sisters this time around.
