“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. Just a week or so while I sort out my own place. You won’t kick me out, I hope,” said her sister.
Margaret set breakfast on the table and went to wake her granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny loved her morning lie-ins.
“Jenny, up you get. You’ll be late for uni.”
Jenny groaned and pulled the duvet over her head.
“Up all night on that computer again? If you went to bed on time, mornings wouldn’t be such a struggle. I’m not letting you off. Up, now.” Margaret yanked the covers away.
“Nana…” Jenny whined but sat up anyway, stretching her arms high above her head, swaying on slender legs.
“Quickly, your tea’s going cold,” Margaret chided, already halfway out the door.
“I’m so sick of everything,” Jenny muttered under her breath, shuffling after her.
“I heard that. Who’s sick of what? Me, is it?” Margaret stopped abruptly, and Jenny nearly collided with her. “One more word and I’ll be cross. If you don’t like it, you can go live with your mother.”
“Sorry, Nana.” Jenny pecked her cheek and dashed to the bathroom.
“Little fox,” Margaret shook her head. Another ordinary morning in an ordinary life. That’s how it slips away, she thought. Soon Jenny would be off to uni, and she’d sit down to work. Thank goodness for remote jobs—her pension alone wouldn’t stretch far.
Margaret took a seat and helped herself to yesterday’s leftover bake.
“Nana, I told you, I don’t eat breakfast. Especially not bake,” Jenny grumbled behind her. “I’ll have tea, but I’m not touching that.” She plopped down opposite, shooting Margaret a defiant look.
“Then I’ll pack you a slice. Skin and bones, you are. You’ll be starved by evening. Eat.”
Jenny sighed and bit into the rectangular slab with a grimace, as if chewing on a toad.
This ritual played out every morning. Coaxing, bribing—just to get an extra bite into Jenny. That ridiculous slimming obsession.
“There’s a good girl.” Margaret snatched her cup and empty plate before Jenny could abandon her half-eaten portion, then stacked them in the sink.
Jenny forced down the last bite, gulped her tea, and slipped away.
No sooner had Margaret started washing up than a rustling came from the hall. She hurried over.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop hovering—I’m not a child. See? Dressed fine.” Jenny zipped her jacket and looped a scarf around her neck. Anticipating the argument, she added, “Not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t dawdle, or I’ll fret. And at my age, worrying’s bad for the heart,” Margaret called after her as Jenny bolted.
With a sigh, Margaret locked the door and headed to Jenny’s room. Predictably, the bed was a mess. Fighting it was as futile as the hat battle. Even if she did wear it, it’d be stuffed in her bag the second she left. “Ah well, who else will spoil her if not her nana?” Margaret smoothed the blanket and retreated to her own room, settling at her desk.
When the doorbell rang at noon, she rubbed her tired eyes. The bell chimed again, longer, more insistent.
Margaret opened the door to a well-kept woman of uncertain age, dressed expensively, her lips stretched in a crimson smile. Recognition flickered—more a guess than a certainty.
“Dorothy?!” she gasped.
The woman grinned wider, flashing teeth too white and even to be real.
“I wondered if you’d know me,” said her sister. “Going to invite me in? Or leave me on the doorstep?” Dorothy hoisted a suitcase and a bulging holdall.
“Come in.” Margaret stepped aside, still reeling. “Where have you been?”
“Around,” Dorothy said, rolling her luggage inside, practically swallowing the hallway.
“Thought I’d come back. Enough of foreign shores—time to come home. Still the same old place, I see.” Her sharp eyes snagged on the worn wallpaper, the scuffed linoleum.
“For good?” Margaret edged past to shut the door.
“Don’t fret, I won’t outstay my welcome. A week, maybe, until I find my feet. You won’t toss me out, I hope?” Not a question—a statement. “No husband, then?” Dorothy cackled at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni.”
“My, how grown. And your daughter?”
“Married, moved out. Get settled—I’ll put the kettle on. Sorry, wasn’t expecting you, so just yesterday’s bake left. Fancy some?” Margaret called from the kitchen.
“Do you even need to ask?” Dorothy smiled.
***
They’d never been close—ten years between them saw to that. People say sisters spend their lives vying for their parents’ love. Dorothy had always treated Margaret with condescension, her very presence screaming, “I never asked for a little sister.”
Margaret was sure their parents loved Dorothy more. She hogged their attention, got new clothes—”She’s the eldest.” Margaret wore hand-me-downs.
Fights erupted over it. Margaret wanted pretty dresses too, but money never stretched far enough.
“Mum! She took my jumper without asking, stained it!” Dorothy wailed, ready for school.
“Did not! It’s three sizes too big on you. You stained it yourself—just want a new one!” Margaret hid behind their mother.
Dorothy lunged, fists flying, till Mum intervened.
“Enough! I’ll buy you a new jumper, just stop bickering.”
Dorothy smirked, flicked her tongue, and flung the old jumper at Margaret.
When Dorothy married straight after school, Margaret rejoiced. Now everything would be hers. Fat chance. Dorothy still visited, begging money—”A new coat,” “Those divine boots.” Mum always gave in. Margaret’s share shrank.
A year later, Dorothy divorced, then married a Londoner. Visits dwindled, but money didn’t. Margaret suspected Mum secretly sent funds. Dorothy’s second marriage lasted longer, till she ran off with some actor.
After the USSR collapsed, the actor—unappreciated at home—fled abroad. He ended up pumping petrol. Dorothy, unimpressed, traded him for a wealthy elderly Swede.
Calls home were rare. “Alive, fine—can’t talk long, it’s expensive.”
The ‘90s were bleak. Dad drank, lost his job, died in a brawl. Mum grieved herself sick. Margaret graduated, scraped into university, but money was tight. When Dorothy next called, Mum begged for help.
Dorothy claimed she had nothing—her husband controlled the purse. She stopped calling. Mum died a year later.
Margaret rang Dorothy herself, but her husband answered, his Russian halting. Dorothy didn’t come to the funeral.
Now, decades later, she’d dropped in like an unseasonal blizzard. Childhood grudges had festered into adult resentments. They greeted each other coolly—both accustomed to life apart.
Over tea, Dorothy confessed: when her husband died, his family evicted her. The will left everything to his ex-wife and daughter. Penniless, she’d struggled abroad before returning “home.”
“After Mum died, I married, had a child. Can’t even recall why we split. My daughter followed your path—teen pregnancy, a short-lived marriage. Now remarried, happy. But Jenny never took to her stepdad. My daughter has her life; Jenny and I have ours,” Margaret said.
“I’ll never forgive you for abandoning us, not even coming to Mum’s funeral,” she added bitterly.
“You think I had it easy? My husband was stingy, left me with nothing. Barely scraped together the fare,” Dorothy defended.
“Why never call? I thought you were dead.”
“Then I’ll live forever,” Dorothy joked, her red lips parting.
After tea, she retired to Jenny’s old room—once theirs—to rest. Margaret couldn’t focus on work. Passing the hallway, she glared at the suitcase, fighting the urge to kick it. A lifetime of slights simmered.
“Nana, is she staying? She’s not having my room,” Jenny declared later, unimpressed by the sudden aunt.
Three weeks passed. Dorothy played lady of leisure—no cooking, no cleaning. Margaret cautiously asked her plans. Relations stayed frosty. Too much time, too many wounds.
“Had enough? I’ll be gone soon,” Dorothy replied cryptically.
No money, Margaret reasoned. Or hoping to snag another widower? Too old for that game now. Still, she couldn’t throw her out.
Work time dwindled. Shopping, cooking for three—money vanished like sand. Resentment festered. Dorothy never appeared without full makeup, dressed like she was off to the opera. “Preening like a peacock,” Margaret muttered. “Doesn’t see those clothes hang offA week later, Dorothy collapsed, and at the hospital, Margaret learned the truth—her sister had come home not to stay, but to die.
