My mothers family is large. She once had six siblings, but now only three remain. Mum and one of her sisters live in the same village, making ends meet through summer work, then getting by in winter on what theyve earned. Like us, they both keep vegetable gardens, cultivated with patient, steady hands.
But my mothers other sister has moved up in the world. She lives in a spacious flat in London and owns a cottage on the edge of the Lake District. Her husband sits as a director for a reputable building firm. It wasnt always so; they started out in the countryside, and my mum and aunt would always offer every helping hand. Once they turned their luck upwards, though, they seemed to forget where they came from.
One afternoon, my mother stumbled upon the newsher sisters daughter had been married off, a lavish affair from all accounts. At first, my mum was stunned, but soon she feigned familiarity, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at being left out. Who wouldnt feel the sting, not being invited to a nieces wedding by their own sister?
With a heavy heart, she brought the story home to her village-dwelling sister. My aunt was equally taken aback, a silent pain flickering in her eyes. They decided to ring this urban sister, offer their congratulations, hoping a hint of remorse might settle on her conscience. But all they received was a curt thank you before the line went dead.
Still, something must have churned beneath her sisters polished exterior. Days later, she arrived at our door, bringing with her daughter, son-in-law, expensive roast beef and carefully selected bottles of fine French wine. But mum, deeply hurt and still seething, would not have it. She sent them packing, her voice trembling between pride and rage.
If were too provincial to sit next to you in some grand restaurant, if our ways embarrass you, you shouldnt bring your airs into our home, she told them, standing straight-backed at the doorway.
Then, her brother-in-law, usually so composed, spat his resentment. Yes, we were ashamed. If you lot had dined at the wedding, the whole place would stink of pork, he sneered, slamming down the last vestige of peace.
That was the last draw. Mum told them, her voice cold as February, never to come back, never to cross her threshold again. Her village sister, true to her blood, vowed the same. Family, torn down the middle, pride and pain echoing through the silent rooms as the sound of the door closed behind them.
