One summer afternoon by the river…
Vicky’s family had always been close-knit. When she was in Year Three, her little sister Becky was born. Vicky adored her role as the big sister—helping Mum push the pram while she cooked or tidied up their flat.
When Becky was old enough for nursery, they wouldn’t take her—classes were overcrowded, staff were stretched thin. Nobody wanted to work with kids for peanuts. The headmistress offered a deal: Becky could start if Mum took a job there. Of course Mum agreed, even though the pay was worse than her old job.
Becky had been a sickly baby, always coddled. At nursery, Mum kept a watchful eye on her. After school, Vicky often popped in, raiding the leftovers—fussy kids never ate their cottage pie or jelly, which suited her just fine. Full and happy, she’d collect Becky and look after her until Mum got home. Back then, she adored her sister. Nobody warned her how insufferable Becky would become.
Becky was four when Dad died. That heatwave summer, temperatures clung stubbornly above thirty degrees. Weekends meant escaping the sweltering city—picnics by the river, day trips to the countryside.
That morning, Mum and Dad packed sandwiches and flasks, buckling the girls into the car. By the time they arrived, the riverbank was packed. The water churned with splashing children and frazzled parents keeping watch. Becky paddled near the shallows while Vicky made sure she didn’t wander.
When Dad dived in with a splash, Vicky assumed he was just cooling off. But then he swam further out—too far. That’s when she spotted the two teenagers in the middle of the river.
At first, she thought they were messing about. Honestly, what kind of parents let kids swim that far out? The river was wide enough to be a challenge even for a strong swimmer, yet there they were—one boy flailing under the surface, the other struggling to keep him afloat.
By the time she realised they were drowning, Dad was already ploughing toward them. He hauled one boy up, swimming one-armed toward the bank while the other teen clung desperately, hindering him.
“He’ll drag them both under!” Vicky yelled.
Two men nearby turned, then charged into the water. Soon, half the beach was staring. The men took the boys, and Vicky cheered—until she realised Dad wasn’t surfacing.
“Dad? DAD!” she screamed. Mum grabbed Becky, scanning the water. “There!” she kept saying, pointing at strangers. Vicky shook her head, frantic, jabbing her finger toward the middle.
When they pulled him out, it was too late.
After the funeral, Mum moved like a ghost, barely noticing the girls. Vicky took Becky to nursery, rushed to school, then collected her again. Becky whined endlessly—”I want Mummy to pick me up!”
“Mummy’s poorly,” Vicky said.
“Then Dad should come!” Becky sniffled.
Home was worse. Mum stayed curled on the sofa, facing the wall. She wouldn’t eat. Terrified, Vicky knocked on Mrs. Carter’s next door. The neighbour’s talk jolted Mum back to life—she cleaned, cooked, returned to work. Becky was thrilled.
For a while, money wasn’t tight. Dad’s railway job gave them a payout, their savings held, and the nursery let Mum bring leftovers home. Vicky suspected Mum wasn’t eating—saving every bite for them.
At sixteen, Vicky wanted to work full-time to help. Mum wouldn’t hear of it. “At least get qualifications. Dad wouldn’t want you dropping out.” So Vicky enrolled in an Open University course—whatever had the most funding. She took a part-time job. Nobody handed out money, after all.
Years ago, Dad bought land, dreaming of a big house with gardens. He’d only laid foundations when a friend offered to buy it. Mum sold without haggling. The cash kept them going.
Meanwhile, Becky grew demanding—designer clothes, the latest phone, a tablet. “Everyone else has one!” If refused, she’d shriek, “You shouldn’t have had me!” Storming out became her signature move.
“We’re not eating nursery slop like paupers,” she’d sneer, pushing away food. She never visited Mum at work like Vicky had. Her grades tanked; nights out with mates mattered more.
Then Mrs. Carter’s nephew, Oliver, visited. Vicky fell for him hard—until his holiday ended. He begged her to come to London. How could she leave Mum with Becky? Oliver left, promising to call.
By winter, Becky wanted a fur coat like her friend’s. “Get a weekend job like I did,” Vicky snapped. Instead, Becky threw a tantrum. Mum borrowed money and bought the coat.
“Why enable her?” Vicky fumed.
“She’s growing up without a dad,” Mum sighed.
Vicky bit back tears, regretting not leaving with Oliver.
He called, even visited at Christmas. Becky scraped through school, didn’t bother with uni, just lounged about.
Next summer, Oliver returned. Vicky couldn’t get time off. Then suddenly—he left early. “Friends invited me rafting,” he said. She was stuck at work when he left.
At home, Becky’s note waited: *Gone to London. Talent beats grades. Don’t look for me.* And—she’d taken their emergency cash.
Vicky called Oliver. He confessed—Becky had seduced him. “Send her home NOW,” Vicky ordered.
Mum came home to find her crying. “Where’s Becky?”
“Ran off with Oliver.”
Mum paled. “Find her!”
“She’ll crawl back,” Vicky muttered.
A year later, Becky returned. Mum was at work. She walked in, dropped a wriggling bundle on the sofa.
“Her name’s Daisy,” she said flatly. “Nappies and formula are in the bag.”
Vicky stared. “Whose baby is this? Oliver’s?”
Becky headed for the door.
“WAIT!” Vicky lunged. “You’re leaving her?”
“You’ll take better care of her.”
Her calmness stunned Vicky. The door slammed.
Mum screamed when she saw the baby. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
“And leave Daisy alone?” Vicky snapped. Becky’s signed adoption papers said it all.
Grief faded. Life moved on—Mum’s health worsened. Bad knees, worse heart. “Promise you’ll help Becky if I die,” she’d whisper. Vicky promised, though finding Becky seemed impossible.
Then the hospice called. Becky was in London—dying.
She barely looked human now.
“Mum?” Becky rasped.
“Gone six months ago,” Vicky whispered.
Tears dripped. Vicky wiped them.
“Remember the river?” Becky murmured suddenly. “I remember Dad drowning.”
Vicky stiffened. “You were too small.”
“I remember,” Becky insisted. “I blamed myself. You could’ve saved him if not for me.”
“Don’t be daft. I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
Becky died the next day. Buried separately—no space by Dad and Mum.
Daisy grew up avoiding graves. “I look like her,” she’d shudder. “Like it’s my coffin.”
Vicky stopped insisting. Soon, Daisy would leave too.
Alone, she’d stare at old photos—remembering that sweltering day by the river.
