**The Sisters**
Dawn broke, and Eleanor rose with it. She made breakfast, packed her husband’s lunch, and only then went to wake him.
“Ellie, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the bulging bag.
“Two days on site—when will you have time to cook? Just heat it up. And there’s warm clothes in there too. Nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it goes cold,” Eleanor dismissed, waving a hand.
He ate heartily, dressed, and shouldered the bag.
“Right, I’m off. You go back to bed,” he said, stepping out.
Eleanor shut the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and peered through the window. She knew halfway across the yard, Edward would turn and wave. And there he was, pausing, glancing back at the house, lifting a hand. She waved back. A private smile curled her lips. *Like newlyweds.* Warmth settled in her chest.
Since retiring, she’d taken to seeing him off like this—whether to work or the cottage. Twenty-six years together. Not so long, given their age. Both carried baggage from past lives.
Eleanor hated being alone. She’d have gone to the cottage, but she’d promised their daughter to babysit today. She sighed. Sleep seemed pointless. Too early to vacuum—neighbours in these flats liked their weekend lie-ins.
With nothing else to do, she lay atop the covers in her dressing gown, thoughts drifting until sleep took her.
A dream came—her grandmother’s shaggy old collie, Bonnie, bounding toward her, tail wagging. “Bonnie! Where’ve you been?” Eleanor reached to pet her, but the dog suddenly bared its teeth. She jerked her hand back, bewildered—
She woke with a start. The room was empty, of course. Bonnie had died when Eleanor was fourteen. The clock showed she’d only napped ten minutes. She closed her eyes again. *Dreams of the dead mean storms, dogs mean kin*—the doorbell rang. Who called at this hour?
Groaning, she slipped on her slippers and shuffled to the door. The bell chimed again, impatient.
“Coming, coming,” she muttered, turning the lock.
The sight of her visitor nearly made her slam the door. They say first instincts are right. Later, she wished she’d listened. Her younger sister stood on the threshold. Eleanor’s heart fluttered like a trapped sparrow.
“Hello, sis,” chirped Imogen, stressing the last word with a smile.
Her sister’s large teeth jutted forward, pink gums visible. *They say prophetic dreams aren’t real*, Eleanor thought, recalling Bonnie’s snarl. The thought soured her stomach. Imogen’s unannounced visit after years of silence boded ill.
They shared a mother, different fathers, and a ten-year gap. Eleanor’s dad had died in a crash; three years later, Mum remarried and had Imogen. The sisters were opposites—Eleanor plump and soft-featured, gentle; Imogen tall, sharp-boned, with those prominent teeth.
“Well? Leaving me on the doorstep?” Imogen tilted her head.
Eleanor still could’ve shut the door. But blood was blood.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
Imogen kicked off her heels, fluffed her hair in the hall mirror, then eyed Edward’s slippers. Eleanor handed her guest ones—too small, but the only spares.
“Show me your kingdom,” Imogen said, striding into the living room, gaze darting to every detail. “Posher than I expected. Imported furniture, fresh paint…” She glanced back. For a flash, Eleanor caught envy in her eyes. Then Imogen grinned, teeth gleaming. Bonnie’s snarl flickered in Eleanor’s mind again.
“Landed well, didn’t you? Where’s hubby?”
“At the cottage.”
“Oh, a *cottage*? Proper bourgeois,” Imogen drawled, the tone implying *We’ll see about that*.
“Why are you here?” Eleanor’s patience frayed.
“Missed you. We’re all each other’s got.” Imogen studied a photo of Eleanor’s daughter and grandson. “This her?”
Eleanor didn’t answer.
“I’m alone now. Left Tom after two years. Two more husbands since—waste of time, all the same,” Imogen confided.
“Still stealing them, then?” The jab slipped out.
“You’ve gone nasty. What’s your girl’s age?” Imogen ignored the dig.
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ah, so you waited two years. Rushed the kid to lock him in?” Imogen threw her head back, laughing at her own jest.
“She’s Edward’s from his first marriage,” Eleanor said, then cursed herself for justifying.
Imogen smirked. “Truce? Fancy a cuppa?”
As Imogen cooed over the kitchen’s “charm,” Eleanor reheated the kettle.
“How long are you staying?”
“Already booting me out?” Imogen volleyed back.
Eleanor stayed silent. She willed her sister to say she’d leave after tea.
“Just tonight? Hate hotels. Hubby’s away anyway. Off tomorrow,” Imogen said, dashing hopes.
“Where to?”
“The coast. Wanted some sun *one last time*. Thought I’d drop in on big sis. Shame she’s not thrilled.” Imogen sighed theatrically. “Honestly, after all these years—still holding a grudge? I was daft back then. Dunno why I did it. Tom and I flopped anyway. He’s got two boys now. Happy, supposedly. And you’re not exactly suffering. Worked out for the best, eh?”
Eleanor missed the *one last time* remark, but old wounds throbbed.
“Forgive you? You wrecked my life!”
“Please, you’re married, comfortable. And Tom? Middling in bed.” Imogen winked.
The conversation spiraled—same old grievance, stale and pointless. Eleanor set out biscuits, clattering the tin.
“Not joining me? Or am I contagious?” Imogen nodded at the lone cup.
“Already ate with Edward.”
“Ohhh.” Imogen’s smirk widened.
After tea, Imogen stretched. “Ta for this. Mind if I leave my bag? Fancy a wander. You’ll be in later?”
“Promised my daughter I’d babysit.”
Imogen’s brow arched. “Spare me a key then? Hate waiting on doorsteps. Relax, I’ve got my own junk.”
Hesitating, Eleanor handed it over. Once Imogen left, she checked hiding spots—cash, papers, jewelry. With Imogen, nothing was safe. Blood or not, she should’ve tossed her out.
She’d been prettier than Imogen but quieter, shyer. Men flocked to Imogen like moths.
Eleanor had known Tom since school. He’d proposed after his army service. Wedding plans were in full swing when she caught him in bed with Imogen. Humiliated, she fled to another city. Imogen? Unfazed. They married anyway—like Tom was spellbound.
Eleanor found work, lived in a bedsit. Mum’s letters begged reconciliation. But she couldn’t forgive either of them.
Then, in a supermarket, she met Edward—flustered, his little girl wailing for a doll he couldn’t yet afford. Eleanor bought it. The girl clung to her. Edward’s wife had died six months prior.
When he proposed, Eleanor said yes, though neither loved the other yet. His daughter called her “Mum” within weeks. Over time, warmth grew. She never regretted it. A miscarriage meant no child of their own, but she loved Alice as her own.
A call from Alice snapped her from memories. “On my way,” Eleanor said, gathering her things.
That evening, light blazed from every window. Her stomach knotted. Edward home early?
The TV roared. Imogen lounged with wine, an empty box of chocolates beside her. Cigarette haze lingered. Eleanor flung windows open.
“Smoke outside!” She turned the TV down. “Celebrating?”
“Join me. Oh wait—Saint Eleanor doesn’t drink.” Imogen slurred, draining her glass.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” Eleanor’s voice hardened.
“Changed my mind. Two more nights. Don’t panic—not after your hubby.” Imogen’s grin was glassy.
Arguing was futile. Edward would handle it tomorrow.
Sleep came near dawn. In the morning, Imogen was gone—perhaps sensing Eleanor’s resolve.
Edward returned early. She told him everything. When Imogen reappeared, Eleanor suggested a hotel.
“You owe me. I’m not leaving till I get what’s mine,” Imogen announced.
“After what you did?”
“Gran’s cottage. *My* dad fixed it up. Half is mine.”
“We sold it after Mum died. Edward has the cottage now.”
“Mum left a will?” Imogen’s eyes narrowed.
“No. It was suddenThe money changed hands, Imogen vanished with it, and when the cancer took her a few months later, Eleanor stood alone by the grave, mourning not the sister she had, but the one she’d always wished for.
