*Diary Entry*
“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. Just a week or so until I sort out my own place. Hope you won’t kick me out,” said my sister.
Margaret set breakfast on the table and went to wake her granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny loved sleeping in.
“Jenny, get up. You’ll be late for uni.”
Jenny grumbled and tugged 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. Come on, up you get.” Margaret yanked the covers off.
“Ugh, Nan…” Jenny groaned but sat up, stretching her arms overhead and wobbling on her slim legs.
“Quickly, before your tea goes cold,” Margaret called over her shoulder as she left.
“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 spun around abruptly, and Jenny nearly bumped into her. “One more word like that, and I’ll be offended. Don’t like it? You can go live with your mum.”
“Sorry, Nan.” Jenny pecked Margaret’s cheek and dashed to the bathroom.
*Little fox,* Margaret shook her head. *Just another ordinary morning. Life passes so quickly.* She sighed. *Once Jenny’s off, I’ll get to work. Thank heavens I can work from home—my pension alone wouldn’t keep us afloat.*
She sat at the table and picked at yesterday’s leftover pudding.
“Nan, I *said* I don’t eat breakfast, especially not that,” Jenny whined from behind her. “I’ll have tea, but not this.” She plopped down, glaring stubbornly.
“Then I’ll pack some for you. Skin and bones, you are. Eat.”
Jenny sighed and took a reluctant bite, grimacing as if chewing a toad.
This routine repeated every morning—forcing extra food into Jenny with threats and bribes. *Blame this ridiculous diet craze.*
“Good girl.” Margaret snatched her cup and plate away before Jenny could abandon her half-eaten slice and carried them to the sink.
Jenny gulped her tea, wiped her mouth, and bolted.
Before Margaret could finish washing up, rustling came from the hall. She hurried over.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop it—I’m not a child. See? Dressed properly.” Jenny zipped her jacket and looped a scarf around her neck, then cut Margaret off with, “Not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t be late, or I’ll worry. And at my age, worrying isn’t good for me,” Margaret called as Jenny sped away.
Locking the door, Margaret headed to Jenny’s room. *Bed unmade again.* Fighting it was as pointless as arguing over the hat—she’d just stuff it in her bag the second she left. *Well, who’ll spoil her if not her nan?* Margaret smoothed the quilt.
She settled at her desk, and at noon, the doorbell rang. Rubbing her tired eyes, she ignored it—until it rang again, louder.
Opening the door, she froze. A well-kept woman stood there, dressed expensively, lips stretched in a smile under garish red lipstick. For a moment, neither spoke. Recognition flickered.
“Eleanor?!” Margaret gasped.
The woman’s grin widened, her teeth too perfect to be real.
“I wondered if you’d recognize me,” said her sister. “Going to let me in? Or leave me on the doorstep?” She hoisted a suitcase and an oversized holdall.
Margaret stepped aside, stunned. “Where’ve you come from?”
“Oh, you know,” Eleanor breezed in, cluttering the hall. “Had enough of abroad. Time to come home. Still the same old place, I see.” Her sharp eyes noted the peeling wallpaper, the scuffed floor.
“You’re staying?” Margaret edged past to shut the door.
“Don’t panic—just a week or two while I find a flat. You won’t kick me out, will you?” She didn’t ask; she declared. “Still single, then?” Eleanor laughed raspily at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni.”
“Goodness, all grown up. And your daughter?”
“Married, living separately. Tea?” Margaret called from the kitchen. “Didn’t expect you, so only yesterday’s pudding left. Fancy some?”
“Do you even need to ask?” Eleanor smiled.
***
They’d never been close—ten years between them and a lifetime of rivalry. *They say sisters spend their lives arguing over who was loved more.* Eleanor had always been condescending, as if Margaret’s existence were an inconvenience.
Margaret had resented it. Eleanor got new clothes; Margaret got hand-me-downs.
“Mum! She stole my jumper and stained it!” Eleanor would shriek before school.
“I did not! It’s three sizes too big on me. You ruined it yourself—just want a new one!” Margaret would retort.
Eleanor would lunge, Margaret would hide behind their mother, and Mum would sigh, “I’ll buy you a new one—just stop fighting.”
Eleanor always won, smirking as she tossed the old jumper at Margaret.
When Eleanor married straight out of school, Margaret had been relieved. *Now everything’s mine.* But Eleanor still came begging—money for coats, for boots, always the latest trend. Mum always gave in. And Margaret went without.
A year later, divorced, Eleanor married a Londoner and visited rarely. Money didn’t last—Margaret suspected Mum sent it secretly. Eleanor’s second marriage lasted longer until she left him for some actor.
Then the USSR collapsed, the actor fled abroad, failed, and wound up pumping petrol. Eleanor, unsatisfied, traded him for a wealthy elderly Swede.
She called home sparingly, never long—too expensive.
Hard times fell. Dad drank himself to ruin; Mum grieved herself sick. Margaret scraped through university. When she begged Eleanor for help, the answer was, “No money. My husband controls it.”
Mum died. Eleanor didn’t come.
Now, decades later, she’d dropped in like a thunderbolt.
Over tea, Eleanor admitted her rich husband had died, leaving everything to his ex and daughter. Penniless, she’d returned home.
Margaret shared her own story—a failed marriage, a daughter who’d repeated her mistakes.
“I never forgave you for not helping when Mum died,” Margaret said bitterly.
“You think I had it easy? That miser left me nothing. I barely scraped together fare.”
“Why didn’t you call? I thought you were dead.”
“Then I’ll live a long time,” Eleanor grinned, lips blood-red.
She excused herself to rest in Jenny’s room—their old childhood one. Margaret eyed the luggage in the hall, itching to kick it.
Three weeks passed. Eleanor lived like a guest, never lifting a finger. Margaret cautiously asked her plans.
“Bored of me? I’ll be gone soon,” Eleanor said cryptically.
*No money—just waiting to snag another widower? At her age?* But Margaret couldn’t throw her out.
Then Eleanor collapsed. The ambulance took her to oncology.
At the hospital, she confessed: she’d been ill for years. Two months left, at most. Her husband’s money had run out—she’d come home to die.
“You’ll get better here,” Margaret lied, shaken by how frail she looked without makeup.
“No. I’m not afraid. I’ve had a good life. But I envied you—you have family. I’ll leave nothing behind.”
“I need you,” Margaret blurted.
Eleanor waved her off. “Listen. There’s a card in my suitcase. I squirreled money away—knew he’d cut me off. Buy Jenny a flat. Or I’ll haunt you.” She laughed, then coughed violently.
Margaret was ushered out.
At home, she didn’t check the suitcase. *Why didn’t she use it for treatment?* She’d ask tomorrow.
But the next day, the bed was empty.
“Your sister passed this morning,” the nurse said.
Margaret wept. She’d never apologized, never let go of the old resentments.
After the funeral, she found the card. Enough for a flat and furniture.
All those years wasted on bitterness—when there’d been one last chance. Eleanor had come home to die with her. But they’d missed it.
Now Margaret visits her grave often, talking as if Eleanor hears. In the photo on the headstone, for once, her smile is kind.
Funny, how we squander time on quarrels—forgetting how little we truly have. Sometimes, it’s gone before we know.
