**The Sisters**
Margaret rose at dawn, made breakfast, packed her husband’s lunch, and only then went to wake him.
“Meg, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the heavy bag.
“You’ll need food for two days. No time to cook there—just heat it up. No fussing. There’s warm clothes too. Nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Margaret waved him off.
He ate heartily, dressed, grabbed the bag.
“I’m off—you go back to sleep,” he said, stepping out.
Margaret locked the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and glanced out the window. She knew that halfway across the yard, James would turn and wave. And he did—pausing, glancing back at the house, raising a hand. She waved back. A private smile touched her lips. *Like newlyweds.* A warmth settled in her chest.
Since retiring, she’d always seen him off like this, whether to work or their cottage. Twenty-six years together. Not so long, really, given their age. Both had pasts—other loves, other lives.
She hated being alone. She’d have gone with him today, but she’d promised their daughter she’d babysit her grandson. Margaret sighed. Sleep seemed impossible now. Too early to vacuum—the walls in these flats were paper-thin, and neighbors cherished their weekend lie-ins.
With nothing else to do, she lay back on the bed in her dressing gown, letting her thoughts drift—until, without realizing, she slipped into sleep.
A dream came. Her grandmother’s old collie, Daisy, big and shaggy, bounded toward her, tail wagging madly. “Daisy! Where’ve you been?” Margaret reached to pet her—but suddenly, the dog bared her teeth. Margaret recoiled, confused—
She jolted awake. The room was empty. No Daisy. The dog had died of old age when Margaret was fourteen. A glance at the clock—she’d only slept ten minutes. She closed her eyes again. *The dead in dreams mean storms, dogs mean kin*—a knock at the door cut her thought short. Who could it be this early?
She sat up, slid her feet into slippers, and shuffled to the entryway. Another knock, impatient.
“I’m coming!” she muttered, swinging the door open—
And nearly slammed it shut again.
Standing there was the last person she wanted to see. They say your first instinct is the right one. Later, she’d wish she’d listened.
Her younger sister.
Her heart hammered like a trapped bird.
“Hello, *sis*,” Charlotte said, lingering on the word, smiling.
Her front teeth jutted slightly. When she grinned, the pink edge of her gums showed. *They say dreams aren’t prophetic,* Margaret thought, remembering Daisy’s snarl.
A visit after so many years could only mean trouble.
They shared a mother, but different fathers—ten years apart in age. Margaret’s dad died in a crash; three years later, Mum remarried and had Charlotte. The sisters looked nothing alike. Margaret was short, softly rounded, with fine features; Charlotte was tall, lean, with a narrow face and those prominent teeth.
“Well? Going to leave me on the doorstep?” Charlotte asked.
Margaret still had time to shut the door.
But she was family.
“Come in,” Margaret said, stepping aside.
Charlotte kicked off her heels, fluffed her hair in the hall mirror, and motioned to James’s slippers.
Margaret handed her a guest pair—too small, but Charlotte crammed her feet in anyway.
“Show me around,” she said, already prowling the living room, eyes darting to every detail. “God, look at this place! Imported furniture, fresh paint…” She turned, eyeing Margaret.
For a flash, Margaret saw it—resentment, bitterness. Then Charlotte grinned, those teeth on full display. Daisy’s snarl flashed in Margaret’s mind again.
“Landed yourself a good one, didn’t you? Where’s the husband?”
“At the cottage,” Margaret said tightly.
“Ooh, a *cottage* too? Proper bourgeoisie, aren’t you?” Her tone dripped with mock awe.
“Why are you here?” Margaret’s control wavered.
“I *missed* you. We’re all each other’s got.” Charlotte picked up a photo of Margaret’s daughter and grandson. “Who’s this? Yours?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
“Me? I’m alone. Michael and I split quick. Two more husbands after him—all the same, really. Should’ve kept the first.” She smirked.
“Did you steal those two as well?” Margaret couldn’t help the jab.
“You’ve gotten nasty. Let bygones be bygones, eh?” Charlotte’s grin widened. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Then why? Nostalgia? Or just here to take what you can?”
“Ouch. How old’s your daughter?” Charlotte ignored the venom.
“Twenty-eight.”
“So you married two years *after* me. Rushed into kids so no one could steal him?” She threw her head back, laughing.
“She’s James’s daughter,” Margaret said—then hated herself for justifying.
She was furious. Furious at herself, at the shock still clouding her mind.
“Truce? Fancy a cuppa?” Charlotte said breezily.
As Charlotte cooed over the kitchen—*Oh, this tile! So posh!*—Margaret flicked the kettle back on.
“How long are you staying?”
“Already booting me out?”
The back-and-forth was exhausting. Margaret stayed silent. She wanted—*needed*—Charlotte to say she’d leave after tea.
“Just tonight? Hate hotels. James isn’t back till tomorrow anyway.”
Margaret’s stomach sank.
“Where are you headed?” she forced out.
“The seaside. Wanted one last bit of sun. Thought I’d stop by. Shame you’re not happier to see me.” A theatrical sigh. “God, years go by, and you’re *still* holding a grudge? I was stupid—don’t even know why I did it. Michael and I crashed and burned. He’s married now, you know? Two boys. Happy. And you’re not exactly suffering.” She shrugged. “Worked out for the best, really.”
Margaret missed the word *last*—but old hurt flared anyway.
“*Forgive* you? You ruined my life!”
“Oh, come off it. You’re married, comfortable. And Michael? Bit dull in bed, if we’re honest.”
The conversation looped—pointless, toxic. Margaret set out biscuits, poured tea.
“Not joining me?” Charlotte nodded at the lone cup.
“I ate with James.”
“Ah.”
After tea, Charlotte stretched. “Ta. Mind if I leave my bags? Fancy a wander. You’ll be in later?”
“Promised my daughter I’d babysit.”
Charlotte’s brow lifted.
“Give me a key. Won’t stand outside like a beggar.” A dry laugh. “Relax—not after your things.”
Margaret hesitated—but handed it over.
The second Charlotte left, she checked the hiding spots—cash, documents, her modest jewelry. With Charlotte, you never knew.
People didn’t change.
Still, she was family.
Margaret told herself she’d endure till morning. Thank God James wasn’t here.
She’d been the pretty one—but quiet, reserved. Charlotte? Men trailed after her like starving dogs.
Margaret and Michael had been sweethearts since school. When he returned from service, he proposed. Wedding plans were half-done when Margaret found him in bed with Charlotte.
The humiliation broke her. She fled to another city.
Charlotte married Michael instead.
Mum begged Margaret to forgive—letters full of *please, she’s your sister*.
But she couldn’t.
It took years to heal. Then, one day in a shop, she met James. He was with his little girl, Lily, who was wailing for a doll. Red-faced, he whispered they’d have to wait till payday.
Margaret bought the doll.
Lily clung to her.
James’s wife had died six months prior.
When he proposed, Margaret said yes—knowing he didn’t love her, not yet. Lily called her *Mum* straight away.
Gradually, love grew. She never regretted it.
Only—no child of their own. A miscarriage. Then no more chances. But Lily was hers in every way that mattered.
A call from Lily snapped her from the memories.
“On my way,” Margaret said, gathering her things.
On the walk, she rang James. “Charlotte’s here.”
That evening, returning home, she saw every light in the flat blazing. Her stomach twisted. Had James come back early?
From the stairwell, she heard the TV blaring.
Charlotte lounged on the sofa, wineglass in hand. An empty bottle and biscuit wrapper littered the floor. The reek of cigarettes hungMargaret sighed, gripping the keys tighter, knowing this storm was far from over, yet somehow feeling the weight of years of resentment begin to crack—just enough to let in a sliver of light.
