The Sisters, or the Price of a Mother’s Neglect…
Mum had always adored the actress Alice Eve, so she named her daughter after her.
Father left them when Alice was eight. Life grew harder, but at least the daily shouting stopped. Alice was old enough to understand why her parents argued.
Mum would scream that Father couldn’t resist chasing skirts. What Alice never understood was why young, pretty women would agree to see him, knowing he had a wife and daughter.
“I’ve had enough. I won’t listen to these baseless accusations. I’d rather spend time with my mates than with you,” Father would snap before slamming the door behind him.
Alice was relieved when he wasn’t home. No tears, no shouting. Besides, he never paid her any mind—always at work, coming back after she’d gone to bed, or off with friends on weekends.
One night, the shouting was worse than ever. Dishes shattered.
“You don’t care about us, about your own daughter! You’re abandoning her as much as me! All you think about is women—”
“Fine, I’ll take her with me, then,” Father shot back.
“And what will your new wife say? She’s already got a son running wild—a proper little hoodlum!”
Alice sat in her room, hands pressed over her ears. Then—silence. She lowered them, too afraid to step out. Soon, Mum came in, eyes swollen.
“Did it scare you? Don’t worry.” She hugged Alice, and they stayed like that for a long while.
“What about Dad? Is he gone for good?”
“You heard all that? I’m sorry, love. We’ll manage, won’t we? Fancy a cuppa with biscuits?”
Mum left to tidy the kitchen. After a while, Alice crept out and saw her sweeping up broken china, crying. She slipped back unseen.
That summer, Mum sent Alice to stay with Gran, her father’s mother. Gran was kind to them but scolded her own son. Alice missed Mum, but Gran insisted she needed time to heal and find Alice a proper father.
“I don’t need anyone but Mum,” Alice insisted.
Mum fetched her at summer’s end, just before school. They clung to each other, overjoyed. Gran shooed Alice off to pack, then lowered her voice.
“When will you tell her?”
“Soon,” Mum said vaguely.
Alice, sensing danger, burst in. “I won’t stay! I want to go home with Mum!”
She didn’t understand, but she feared being left behind forever.
Back in London, Alice often caught Mum smiling to herself. It made her happy too—until the day Mum brought home a man named Henry. He handed Alice a box of sweets.
“Uncle Henry will live with us now,” Mum said.
Some girls at school had stepfathers. “Mine’s brilliant—buys me whatever I want!” boasted Lizzie. Nadia scowled; her stepdad was strict, shouting over poor marks and never spending a penny on her. Alice feared Henry might be the same. But he bought her sweets and ice cream, and Mum seemed happy, so Alice relaxed—though she kept her distance, still seeing him as an outsider.
Life didn’t change much, save for fewer rows and Mum no longer reading bedtime stories.
“You’re a big girl now. Read to yourself.” She’d switch off the light and leave. Alice lay awake, listening to their murmured conversations downstairs.
One day, Mum asked if Alice wanted a brother or sister.
“Neither,” she said.
Yet six months later, a squalling baby sister—Emily—arrived. Mum doted on her. Alice burned with jealousy.
“Your mum loves you dearly,” Henry said. “Emily’s just tiny now. When she’s older, you’ll play together.”
Alice studied the wriggling baby but thought, *She’s as much a stranger as Henry. Only Mum matters.* But who asks a child’s opinion?
As Emily grew, Mum asked Alice to mind her. To her surprise, Alice didn’t mind. She liked feeling grown-up, as if Emily were a living doll.
Then Henry died in his sleep—a blood clot, the doctors said. Mum grieved deeply, withdrawing into herself. Only one thing roused her.
Alice was pushing Emily on the swings when a boy shoved her off. She scraped her forehead, wailing. Alice carried her home.
“I didn’t do it!” she insisted, but Emily tearfully blamed her.
Mum rounded on Alice, screaming at her to get out. Locked in her room, Alice sobbed silently.
After that, Mum hardly noticed her. Alice realised: Mum had loved Henry. Emily was all she had left of him. As for Alice—she was her father’s daughter, and Mum’s resentment had spilled onto her too.
When Alice finally voiced her hurt, Mum said, “You’ve got a living father. Emily’s an orphan.”
“Father? I’ve not seen him since he left! Child support hardly counts as being in my life!”
It was useless. Mum shared her grief only with Emily, pouring all her love into her.
No wonder Alice pulled away. She met a bloke, Rob, and moved out without a backward glance. Mum didn’t seem to mind.
Rob worked while studying remotely. They rented a flat. Alice visited occasionally, bringing Emily sweets or toys. Mum asked perfunctory questions, then prattled on about Emily. Again, Alice felt like an outsider.
They married when Alice was expecting twins, took out a mortgage. With two boys to raise, she rarely visited. Mum never reached out either—except once, to moan about Emily skipping school, staying out late, ruining her GCSEs…
Emily barely scraped into teacher training college, far from the medical degree Mum had dreamed of.
“Teaching’s respectable,” Alice said. “She’ll need it when she has kids.”
“What sort of teacher smokes and gallivants? If her father had lived—”
“If *my* father hadn’t left, there’d *be* no Emily. You might’ve loved *me*,” Alice blurted.
Mum called her a heartless brat, and the calls stopped.
Then Mum fell ill. Tests revealed cancer. Alice stepped in, helping after surgery and chemo, though Mum only worsened. Emily was seldom home.
“She’s busy with studies, placements… She’s young—why sit with an old woman? She’ll miss her chance at marriage!”
“Marriage can wait. She could at least check on you!”
Alice juggled visits with caring for her own family. Taking Mum in would mean cramming the boys into one room—no space for growing lads. Still, she offered.
“And leave Emily alone?” Mum refused.
Emily found endless excuses to avoid Mum, even complaining about the smell of medicine.
“Take her to yours if you like cleaning up her messes,” she sneered.
“*Your* mother! You should be caring for her!”
Alice arranged hospice care, visiting daily while Mum pined for Emily.
In her final days, Mum came home. Alice moved in, leaving Rob and the boys. One day, Mum handed her a folder. “Important documents,” she whispered. Alice set it aside.
“Mum’s dying. Come and say goodbye,” she begged Emily.
“I’ll pop by when I can.” She never did.
After the funeral—which Emily attended—Alice opened the folder. The will left everything to her. She reread it, dumbstruck.
Emily returned with a boyfriend that same day, wrinkling her nose.
“Reeks in here. I’ll sell it in six months.”
“You’ll sell nothing. It’s mine.” Alice showed her the will.
“You liar! You pressured her! She’d never do this—she *loved* me!”
“Where were you when she was ill? She asked for you every day!”
Emily threatened court, then switched tactics—sobbing about rented flats, regrets. Rob warned Alice not to cave.
“She didn’t shed a tear at the graveside. We’ve two kids to think of.”
“But she’s my sister…”
“Sell it and split the money,” he suggested.
Emily whined it wasn’t enough. “Can’t you help? You’ve got a house!”
“You’ve got a bloke—let *him* sort it.”
Alice, feeling guilty, agreed to split the proceeds.
Once the flat sold, Emily vanished. Calls went unanswered.
Alice had always thought *they* were the outsiders. Turns out, it was her.
When parents divorce, they don’t think of their children’s hearts. And children? They grieve in silence. Half a flat—that was the price for a mother’s withheld love.
