Sisters, or the Price of Unloved…
Mum adored the actress Alice Eve, so she named her daughter after her.
Father left them when Alice was eight. Life grew harder, yet the daily quarrels ceased. Alice was old enough to understand why her parents fought.
Mum would scream that Father couldn’t resist chasing after every skirt in town. What Alice couldn’t grasp was why young, pretty women would entertain a man who had a wife and child.
“Enough. I won’t listen to these baseless accusations. I’d rather spend time with my mates than with you,” Father would shout before slamming the door.
Alice was relieved when he wasn’t home. No tears, no shouting. Besides, Father never paid her any mind—always at work, coming home after she was asleep, or off with friends on weekends.
Once, their row was so violent that Alice heard shattering crockery.
“You don’t care about us, about your own daughter! You’re abandoning her as well as me! All you think about is women—”
“Then I’ll take her with me,” Father retorted.
“And your new wife won’t mind? She’s already got a son running wild—a proper little delinquent!”
Alice sat in her room, palms pressed to her ears. She was frightened, uneasy. Then, silence. She lowered her hands but didn’t dare leave. Eventually, Mum came in, eyes swollen.
“Were you scared? Don’t be.” She hugged Alice, and they sat like that for a while.
“Where’s Dad? Did he leave us? For another woman?”
“You heard it all, didn’t you? Sorry, love. We’ll manage, eh? Fancy some tea and biscuits?”
Alice nodded.
“Stay here. I’ll tidy the kitchen and fetch you.”
After a moment, Alice crept out anyway. Mum was sweeping up broken dishes, weeping. Alice slipped back unseen.
That summer, Mum sent her to stay with Gran, Father’s mother. Gran was kind to them both but scolded her son. Alice missed Mum, but Gran said she needed time to settle and find Alice a proper father.
“I don’t need anyone but Mum,” Alice insisted.
Mum collected her at summer’s end. They clung to each other, overjoyed. Alice shadowed her every step.
“Go pack your things,” Gran said, shooing her off. At first, Alice ignored the adults’ talk.
“When will you tell her?” Gran’s voice carried.
“Soon. Thank you for everything,” Mum replied vaguely.
“Don’t mention it. You’ve done nothing wrong. Visit whenever you like—leave her here if you need to.”
“I won’t stay! I want to go with Mum!” Alice burst in, terrified she’d be left behind.
Mum took her home. Now, Alice often caught her smiling distantly—a small comfort.
One day, Mum brought a man home. He handed Alice a box of chocolates. “This is Harold. He’ll live with us now.”
Some girls at school had stepfathers. Larissa bragged hers was brilliant—”A hundred times better than a dad!”—while Nadia scowled, stuck with a strict, penny-pinching one. Alice feared Harold might be the same. But he bought her sweets, and Mum seemed happy. Alice relaxed, though she kept her distance.
Life didn’t change much—no more shouting, though Mum rarely read to her at bedtime now.
“You’re big enough to read alone. Sleep well.” The light clicked off, and whispers drifted from the kitchen.
Once, Mum asked whether she’d prefer a brother or sister.
“Neither,” Alice said.
Six months later, baby sister Emily arrived, squalling nonstop. Mum doted on her, barely setting her down. Alice burned with jealousy.
“Your mum loves you, but Emily needs more care now. You’ll play together when she’s older,” Harold reassured her.
Alice studied the wriggling baby, still feeling Harold and Emily were intruders. She wanted no one but Mum—but who asks a child?
As Emily grew, Mum tasked Alice with watching her. Strangely, Alice didn’t mind. Playing the responsible elder pleased her—like tending a living doll.
Then Harold died suddenly in his sleep. A blood clot, the doctor said. Mum plunged into grief until one day, a crisis snapped her awake.
Alice was minding Emily at the park when a boy shoved her off the slide. Emily wailed, blood trickling from her forehead. Alice sprinted home with her.
Mum sprang into action—undressing Emily, daubing her wound, blowing gently. Alice tried explaining, but Emily sobbed, “Alice pushed me!”
Mum turned on her, shrieking, driving her away. Alice locked herself in her room, choking on tears.
After that, Mum barely noticed her. Alice understood: Mum had loved Harold, and Emily was all that remained. Her own father had betrayed them, and Mum’s resentment had spilled onto her.
Alice felt discarded. When she voiced her hurt, Mum snapped, “You’ve got a living father! Emily’s an orphan!”
“What father? I haven’t seen him since he left! He sends money, that’s all!”
It was useless. Mum shared her sorrow with Emily, pouring all her love into the younger girl.
Alice withdrew. She met a lad named Roman and left home without regret—Mum hardly seemed to mind.
Roman studied part-time and worked. They rented a flat. Alice visited occasionally, bringing Emily sweets or toys. Mum asked perfunctory questions, then rambled about Emily. Alice still felt like a stranger.
She married Roman when expecting twins, mortgaging a flat. With two boys to raise, visits dwindled. Mum never reached out either.
Only once did she call, griping that Emily was neglecting school, staying out late, partying—her exams looming…
After scraping into teacher-training college (far from the medical degree Mum dreamed of), Emily idled through life.
“Teaching’s respectable. Useful when she has children,” Alice soothed.
“What kind of teacher smokes and carouses? If only Harold had lived…”
“If my father hadn’t left, it’d be better still. No Emily. You’d have loved only me.”
Mum called her a heartless brat and never phoned again.
Then Mum fell ill. Cancer, the doctors said. Alice visited often, helping where she could. Chemotherapy failed. Emily seldom appeared.
“She’s studying, has placements… She’s young—shouldn’t waste her youth on an old woman,” Mum excused.
“Her suitors won’t vanish! She could at least wait till I’m here in case you need something!”
Alice juggled daily trips with caring for her family. Bringing Mum home would mean squeezing the boys into one room—no, they needed space. Still, she offered.
Mum refused outright. “What about Emily?”
“She’s grown! She ought to care for you, not gallivant about!”
Emily found endless excuses to avoid Mum, even complaining the flat reeked of medicine and urine.
“Take her if you like cleaning up her messes,” she sneered.
Alice arranged hospice care but visited daily. Mum only asked for Emily.
Sent home to die, Alice moved in temporarily, leaving her family. There was no choice.
Once, Mum handed her a folder—”Important papers.” Alice set it aside.
“Mum’s dying. Come say goodbye—she loves you,” Alice begged Emily.
“I’ll pop by when I can,” Emily promised. She never did.
After the funeral (which Emily attended), Alice opened the folder. The will left everything—the flat, all possessions—to her. She checked twice, certain there’d been a mistake. But no: her name was clear.
Emily returned post-funeral with a boyfriend in tow, wrinkling her nose.
“This place stinks. I’ll sell it in six months.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It’s mine. Here’s the will.”
“Liar! You pressured Mum when she was senile! She loved me!”
“Where were you when she was ill? Who tended her? You never even visited the hospice!”
They fought viciously. Emily threatened court, alleging coercion.
“Check the date—she wrote this three months before dying. The doctor’s note—”
“Notes can be faked! You bribed them!”
Eventually, Emily switched tactics, wailing about rented flats, regret, her own foolishness…
“Don’t you dare give her that flat. Your mum spoiled her. She didn’t shed a tear at the graveside. Think of our boys,” Roman urged.
“But she’s my sister.”
“Sell it. Split the money. That flat’s unlivable anyway.”
Alice agreed. Her conscience wouldn’t let Emily go entirely penniless.
Once the sale went through, Emily whined it wasn’t enough for even a studio.
“You’ve got a home. Can’t you help me, sister?”
“Beyond our mortgaged flat, we’ve two children. Let yourBut as the years passed, Alice often wondered if the half she’d given away was not just payment for old wounds, but the last, bitter penny of a love she’d never truly received.
