**A Sister’s Return**
*”Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. Just a week or so until I sort out my own place. You won’t throw me out, I hope?”*
Eleanor set breakfast on the table then went to wake her granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny loved sleeping in.
*”Jenny, get up. You’ll be late for uni.”*
Jenny mumbled something incoherent and yanked the duvet over her head.
*”Up all night on the laptop again? If you went to bed at a decent hour, mornings wouldn’t be such a battle. I’m not leaving till you’re up.”* Eleanor pulled the covers off in one swift motion.
*”Ugh, Nan—”* Jenny groaned, but she dragged herself upright anyway, stretching her arms high, swaying on her slender legs.
*”Hurry, or your tea’ll go cold.”* Eleanor left before Jenny could protest.
*”I’m so sick of everything,”* Jenny muttered under her breath as she shuffled after her.
*”I heard that. And who, exactly, is making you ‘sick of everything’? Me, by any chance?”* Eleanor spun around sharply, forcing Jenny to skid to a stop. *”Say it again, and I’ll take it personally. Don’t like it? You can always move in with your mother.”*
*”Sorry, Nan.”* Jenny pecked her cheek and bolted for the bathroom.
*”Little fox,”* Eleanor sighed, shaking her head. *”Just another ordinary morning, another ordinary day. Before you know it, life slips right by.”*
She sat at the table, picking at yesterday’s leftover casserole.
*”Nan, I told you—I don’t eat breakfast. Especially not *this*,”* Jenny’s voice dripped dismay. *”I’ll have tea, but no casserole.”* She plopped into the chair opposite, arms crossed.
*”Then I’ll pack some for you. You’re skin and bones. Eat, or you’ll be starving by evening.”*
Jenny exhaled dramatically and took a reluctant bite, chewing as if it were poison.
This was their ritual—every morning, another battle to get food into Jenny. *Bloody diet culture.*
*”That’s my girl.”* Eleanor snatched her own plate away before Jenny could abandon the rest, then cleared the dishes.
Jenny gulped her tea and darted off before the conversation could linger.
A rustle from the hallway sent Eleanor hurrying out.
*”Knew you’d follow me. I’m not a kid, *Nan*. Look, I’m dressed fine—see?”* Jenny zipped her jacket, looping a scarf around her neck. Before Eleanor could argue, she added, *”And no, I’m *not* wearing a hat.”*
*”Don’t dawdle, then. I’ll worry—and at my age, stress is lethal.”* The words were wasted; Jenny was already out the door.
Eleanor locked up behind her, then headed to Jenny’s room. *Of course—bed unmade again.* Fighting it was as pointless as the hat debate. *”Well, if no one else spoils her, I suppose it’s my job.”*
She smoothed the quilt, then retreated to her own room to work. The doorbell rang at noon. She rubbed her tired eyes. The bell chimed again—longer, impatient.
At the door stood a woman polished to perfection—expensive clothes, blood-red lips in a practiced smile. Eleanor froze. The woman didn’t speak either. Recognition hit like a slap.
*”Margaret?!”*
The crimson smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. *”I was wondering if you’d recognise me.”*
*”Come in.”* Eleanor stepped aside, still reeling. *”How—where are you even—?”*
*”Back where I belong,”* Margaret declared, wheeling in a suitcase and a bulky holdall. *”Enough of living abroad. Time to come home.”* Her sharp eyes scanned the worn wallpaper, the scuffed linoleum. *”You haven’t changed a thing.”*
*”You’re staying?”* Eleanor squeezed past to shut the door.
*”Don’t panic—just a week or so while I find a place. You won’t kick me out, will you?”* It wasn’t a question. *”Still single, then? Couldn’t land a husband?”* She cackled, raspy and rehearsed.
*”Jenny lives with me. She’s at uni. My daughter’s married—lives on her own.”*
*”Take your coat off. I’ll put the kettle on. Sorry, wasn’t expecting you—only got leftovers. Fancy some?”*
*”Do you even need to ask?”* Margaret smirked.
***
They’d never been close. Ten years apart, a lifetime of competition—who was loved more, who got the best of everything. Margaret had always treated her little sister with cool indifference.
Eleanor resented it. New clothes, new *everything* went to Margaret—she was the eldest. Eleanor got hand-me-downs.
*”Mum! She stole my jumper—got a stain on it!”* Margaret would wail before school.
*”I didn’t! It’s three sizes too big on me! *You* stained it—just want a new one!”*
Margaret would lunge; Eleanor would duck behind their mother.
*”I’ll buy you another, just *stop*!”*
Margaret always won. She’d gloat, flick her tongue, toss the ruined jumper at Eleanor.
When Margaret married straight after school, Eleanor rejoiced—finally, no more competition. But Margaret still came back, begging for money: a coat, boots, something *too expensive*. And their mother *always* gave in.
A year later, Margaret divorced—then married a Londoner. Visits grew rare, but the money still vanished. Eleanor suspected their mother sent it secretly.
Margaret ditched husband number two for some actor. Then the USSR fell, and off they fled—him to pump petrol abroad, her to trade up again: a wealthy, elderly Swede.
Calls home were brief. *”I’m fine—can’t talk long, it’s expensive.”*
Then their father drank himself to death. Their mother wasted away from grief. Eleanor scraped through uni, drowning in bills. When Margaret *finally* called, their mother begged for help.
*”No money,”* Margaret lied. *”My husband controls it—he’d never agree.”*
She never called again. Their mother died. Margaret didn’t come to the funeral.
And now—thirty years later—here she was. Old wounds festered beneath polite hellos.
Over tea, Margaret confessed: when her husband died, his family threw her out. The will left *everything* to his ex-wife and daughter. She’d tried rebuilding abroad—then gave up.
*”Came home to die,”* she admitted bluntly.
*”You’ll get better—our doctors are—”*
*”No. Two months, tops. Stopped treatment when the money ran out.”* Without makeup, she looked hollow. *”Forgive me. I was never a proper sister. But… I envied you.”*
*”Me?”*
*”You had a daughter. A granddaughter. People who *need* you. I’ll leave nothing behind.”*
*”I need you,”* Eleanor whispered.
Margaret laughed weakly. *”Listen. My suitcase—there’s a card inside. I skimmed money for *years*. Buy Jenny a flat. Do it, or I’ll haunt you.”*
Eleanor never checked the suitcase. Why hadn’t Margaret used it for treatment?
The next day, the hospital bed was empty.
*”Moved her?”*
*”She passed this morning.”*
Grief crashed over her. So much left unsaid.
After the funeral, she found the card—enough for Jenny’s flat *and* furniture.
All those years, squandered on grudges.
Now, visiting Margaret’s grave, Eleanor swore she saw her smile—not smug, but soft.
Funny, how life slips away while we cling to anger…
