**Sisters**
Helen rose at dawn, made breakfast, packed her husband’s lunch, and only then went to wake him.
“Ellie, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” her husband said, eyeing the hefty bag.
“You need food for two days. No time to cook there. Just heat it up. Don’t fuss. There’s warm clothes in there too—nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Helen brushed him off.
He ate heartily, dressed, and grabbed the bag.
“Off I go. You go back to sleep,” he said, stepping out of the flat.
Helen shut the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and peered out the window. She knew he’d turn and wave halfway across the courtyard. True enough, he paused, glanced back, and raised his hand. She waved back. A private smile touched her lips. *Like newlyweds.* Warmth settled in her chest.
Since retiring, she always saw him off this way—whether to work or their cottage. Twenty-six years together. Not so long at their age. Both had histories before each other.
Helen hated being alone. She’d have gone to the cottage, but she’d promised their daughter she’d mind her grandson today. She sighed. Sleep was out of the question. Too early to vacuum—the neighbours in their block of flats would complain. Weekends were for lie-ins.
With nothing else to do, Helen flopped onto the bed still in her dressing gown. Drifting through aimless thoughts, she dozed off.
She even dreamt. Her grandmother’s old dog, Max—a big, shaggy thing—ran up to her, tail wagging. *”Max! Where’ve you come from?”* Helen reached to pet him, but suddenly he bared his teeth. She jerked her hand back, baffled.
She jolted awake. Empty room. No Max—hadn’t been for decades. The dog died when she was fourteen. A glance at the clock: only ten minutes’ nap. Eyes closed again, she mused: *Dreams of the dead mean storms, dogs mean family…* The doorbell rang. Who on earth at this hour?
Helen swung her legs off the bed, slipped on slippers, and shuffled to the hall. Another impatient ring.
“Coming, *coming*,” she grumbled, yanking the door open.
The sight nearly made her slam it shut. First instincts are best—later, she wished she had. On the doorstep stood her younger sister. Her heart thrashed like a trapped bird.
“Hello, *sis*,” Claire said, stressing the word, lips stretched in a smile.
Her prominent front teeth jutted forward, exposing pale pink gums. *So much for dreams not meaning anything,* Helen thought, recalling Max’s snarl. The visit boded no good.
Different fathers, ten years apart. Helen’s dad died in a crash; three years later, Mum remarried and had Claire. They shared no looks, no temperament. Helen was short and plump, soft-featured and even-tempered; Claire, tall and wiry, with a sharp face and those teeth.
“Well? Keeping me on the doorstep? Not inviting me in?” Claire asked.
Helen still could’ve shut the door. But blood was blood, uninvited or not.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
Claire slipped off her high heels, fluffed her hair in the hall mirror, then turned.
“Surprise! Bet you didn’t expect me.” She reached for John’s slippers, but Helen fetched guest ones—too small, but all she had.
“Show me around, then,” Claire said, striding into the living room, eyes darting to every detail.
“Posher than I thought! Imported furniture, posh decor…” She glanced back, and for a flash, Helen caught envy and spite in her gaze—then the smile snapped back. Teeth. Max’s snarl again.
“Lucky marriage. Where’s the hubby?”
“At the cottage,” Helen said curtly.
“A *cottage* too? Proper bourgeois, aren’t you?” Claire drawled, the tone implying *We’ll see about that.*
“Why are you here?” Helen’s composure frayed.
“Missed you. We’ve only got each other now,” Claire said, inspecting a photo of Helen’s daughter and grandson. “Who’s this? Your girl?”
Helen didn’t answer.
“I’m on my own. Me and Mike split quick. Two more husbands after—waste of time, honestly. No different from the first.”
“Did you steal those too?” Helen couldn’t stop herself.
“Ooh, testy. Let bygones be bygones, eh?” Claire’s grin widened. Crooked teeth. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Then why? Relive old times? Try to take something else of mine?”
“Still bitter? How old’s your daughter?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“So you married two years later. Rushed a kid to keep him, did you?” Claire threw her head back, cackling.
“His daughter from his first marriage,” Helen snapped—then hated herself for justifying.
“Quits, then. Fancy a cuppa?” Claire said smoothly.
As Claire gushed over the kitchen, Helen reboiled the kettle.
“How long are you staying?”
“Kicking me out already?” Claire parried. Silence. Helen willed her to say *I’ll leave after tea.*
“Just tonight? Hotels depress me. Hubby’s away anyway. Off tomorrow,” Claire said, dashing hope.
“Where to?”
“Spain. Last-chance sunshine. Thought I’d drop in on big sis. Shame she’s not pleased.” A theatrical sigh. “Honestly, after all these years? Still holding a grudge? I was stupid. Mike’s married now—two boys. Happy, apparently. And you’re doing fine. Worked out for the best, eh?”
Helen missed “last-chance,” but old wounds reopened.
“Forgive you? You *ruined* my life.”
“Please. You’re married, comfortable. And your Mike? Mediocre in bed.” Claire smirked.
The talk looped—pointless, venomous. Helen set out tea, biscuits, a box of chocolates.
“Not joining me? Scared I’ll infect you?” Claire nodded at the single cup.
“Already ate with John.”
“Ah.”
Claire drained her tea. “Ta. Mind if I leave my bag? Fancy a wander. You’ll be in later?”
“Promised my daughter I’d babysit.”
Claire’s brow arched. “Gimme a key so I don’t wait outside. Relax, I’ve got my own stuff.”
Helen hesitated but handed it over. Once Claire left, she checked her hidden cash, documents, jewellery. With Claire, expect the worst. People don’t change. Still, kicking her out? A sister. *Should’ve, though.* One night. Thank God John was away.
She’d been prettier than Claire but meeker. Claire toyed with men like puppets.
Helen and Mike were childhood sweethearts. He proposed after the army. Wedding plans rolled—until she caught him in bed with Claire. Humiliated, Helen fled to another city. Claire married Mike. Mum’s letters begged forgiveness.
Helen rebuilt slowly. Met John in a shop—a widower with a sobbing little girl wanting a doll. Helen bought it. The girl clung to her. John proposed; she accepted, knowing he didn’t love her yet. The girl, Ellie, called her Mum. They grew into love, though Helen’s miscarriage meant no more children. She cherished Ellie as her own.
A call from Ellie cut the reverie. “On my way,” Helen said, gathering her things. She phoned John: *Claire’s here.*
That evening, lights blazed in every window. Unease prickled. John back early?
The telly blared. Claire lounged with wine, an empty box of chocolates, a near-empty bottle. Cigarette stench. Helen flung windows open.
“Smoke outside!” She muted the telly. “Celebrating?”
“Join me. Oh, right—you’re *good*.” Claire slurred, draining her glass.
“When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Changed my mind. Two more days. Don’t worry—I’m not after your hubby. Or kicking me out?” Her gaze was bleary.
Arguing with drunks was futile. John returned in the morning…
Helen barely slept. She’d talk to Claire tomorrow—suggest a hotel. Woke late, groggy. Claire was gone. Maybe she sensed the mood?
John came home early. Helen spilled everything. When Claire returned, Helen broached the hotel idea. “We’re not close enough to share a roof.”
“You *owe* me. I’m not leaving till I get what’s mine,” Claire snapped.
“You wrecked my life. What more do I owe?”
“Nan’s cottage.”
“What cottage?”
“Dad fixed it up—put money in. Half’s mine.”
“We soldHelen handed Claire the money, watched her leave, and finally exhaled, knowing some wounds never fully heal but life moves quietly forward.
