Everything had been perfect until she returned. “What are you doing here?” Margaret nearly dropped her coffee mug as she spotted the familiar figure at her home’s threshold. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock.
“Hello, little sister,” Angela smirked, flipping her long fringe back. “Miss me?”
“You should’ve been in America,” Margaret stammered, hands trembling. “Eight years ago, you left and promised never to return.”
“Plans change,” Angela shrugged, stepping past her into the hallway. “Mind if I come in, or do I need an invitation?”
Margaret stepped aside, heart pounding. Eight years of quiet stability, of routines and security, now threatened by the ghost of a sister she thought long gone. Angela surveyed the flat with a critical eye—once shared, now Margaret’s alone.
“Not bad,” Angela remarked, noting the new sofa. “Remember when we used to dream about painting over these horrid floral wallpaper in the hallway?”
“I remember.” Margaret’s voice was quiet, hesitant. “Angie, what are you doing here? Why now?”
“Can’t a sister visit?” Angela shrugged off her coat, tossing it onto the armchair. “The view’s the same. Still those council flats, still that playground with the sandbox.”
Margaret set her coffee cup down. “You look… the same,” she said, hesitating. “But your eyes—they’re tired.”
“Took a hit in New York,” Angela said nonchalantly, noticing the wedding band on Margaret’s finger. “You married?”
“Yes. To Oliver.” Margaret instinctively concealed her hand. “You remember him? My ex-boyfriend.”
“Oliver Frost?” Angela raised an eyebrow. “The one who wrote poetry in class?”
“That’s him.” A pause, then a softer question. “Do you have kids?”
“Just a girl. Natasha. She’s six.”
Angela nodded, but the shift in her expression was unmistakable—something Margaret recognized from their childhood. That look that meant trouble.
“Where is she?”
“At nursery. Oliver will pick her up soon. They’re going to a park.”
“Such a picture of domestic bliss,” Angela mused, a hint of irony in her voice. “Family, a child, stability. Exactly what we used to dream of.”
“Angie—” Margaret stepped forward, but Angela cut her off with a wave.
“I needed a place to stay for a few days,” she said, that familiar pleading smile on her lips. “A couch? No one will even notice.”
Margaret hesitated. A part of her screamed to say no—Annie had always brought chaos—but blood was blood, and their parents were gone.
“Fine,” she sighed. “But just for a few days.”
“Thank you, Margie,” Angela said, hugging her. For a moment, Margaret believed they were still those girls clinging to each other through storms.
That night, Oliver returned with Natasha. He tensed at the sight of Angela, though he hid it behind a polite nod.
“Long time no see,” Angela chirped, flipping through a magazine on the couch.
“Angela,” he greeted, monotone. “How’s America?”
“Boring as hell,” she replied. “But you, Oliver—still the same serious man.”
Natasha tugged at Margaret’s sleeve. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Aunt Angie,” Margaret crouched beside her daughter. “My sister.”
“She’s not your real sister,” Natasha said, squinting. “You never mentioned her.”
“She was working far away,” Margaret explained. “Now, she’s visiting.”
Angela knelt before Natasha, her usual charm in full force. “Hi, Natasha. Look at those cute freckles—I bet you got them from your mom.”
The girl giggled. “Do you really know my mummy?”
“Of course,” Angela grinned. “She was always the most beautiful in the family.”
Dinner was strained. Oliver answered Angela’s questions with clipped responses, while Margaret pushed the soup around her bowl. Natasha, oblivious, chattered about the circus.
“Can we go tomorrow?” she asked.
“Of course, love,” Oliver smiled, and for once, it reached his eyes.
“Can Aunt Angie come?”
Margaret shot a look at her sister.
“Would love to,” Angela said smoothly.
After dinner, Oliver joined Margaret in the kitchen. “How long is she staying?”
“Just a few days,” she said, washing plates.
“This is her, isn’t it?” he murmured. “The one who—?”
“I know,” Margaret cut in. “But she’s family. I can’t just—”
“She’s dangerous, Margaret,” he said gently. “Natasha’s a child. Children sense things.”
A giggle echoed from the living room. Margaret peered in, watching as Angela performed coin tricks for Natasha. “Look, it vanished! Now it’s behind your ear!”
Natasha laughed. “Again! Again!”
Maybe it would be fine. Maybe Angie had changed.
The next day, they all went to the circus. Natasha was magical, and Angela was a surprisingly great aunt—buying cotton candy, guiding her through balloon festivals. Oliver relaxed, even chuckling at her jokes.
“Do you remember,” Angela said that night, “how we used to dream of being circus performers? You wanted to be a trapeze artist, and I wanted to tame lions?”
“Her bravery was due to her courage,” Margaret smiled.
“Still brave,” Angela winked.
“What’s brave?” Natasha asked.
“When you do what you want, even if others say it’s risky.”
Margaret stiffened.
“Bravery’s important,” Oliver interjected. “But so is thinking about consequences.”
“Oliver’s always been cautious,” Angela teased. “Come on, Margie?”
“Cautious isn’t a bad thing,” Margaret said, defending him.
“Sometimes it’s a cage,” Angela replied.
Later, alone, Margaret faced her sister. “You look around, take in the photos on the shelf. Quiet, predictable. Happy?”
“Seems dull,” Angela said. “Do you ever miss the world? Travel, adventures? You wanted to see Paris.”
“Plans change,” Margaret said evenly.
“Or are forced to,” Angela countered. “Are you happy, Margie?”
“Of course.”
“Never wonder about the life you’d have if you hadn’t married young? If you’d waited?”
“Angie—”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
Margaret recognized the lie but couldn’t confront it.
Over the days, Angela fit into their lives seamlessly—playing with Natasha, helping around the house. Even Oliver seemed to soften.
But Margaret noticed the questions: about Oliver’s job, their finances, their future plans.
“How much does Oliver earn?” Angela asked one morning.
“Enough.”
“He’s a sales manager?” She sipped her tea. “He must work with people a lot. Clients probably like him.”
Margaret frowned.
That week, Oliver picked up Angela for a bank run. “Just avoid being late,” Margaret muttered, watching them leave.
That night, Oliver seemed distracted. At dinner, Angela cornered him with questions, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.
“Take me to lunch,” she asked. “I need to look for a job.”
“Of course,” he smiled.
Margaret’s gut twisted. She thought of Denis, her ex-fiancé—how he’d vanished the day Annie showed up.
“Margaret, are you okay?” Angela asked. “You’ve been tense.”
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile.
“You’re mad at me again, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I’ve changed, Margie. These years taught me that happiness isn’t something you steal.”
“Easy for you to say,” Margaret snapped.
“Then stop struggling,” Angela said quietly. “You’ve built this perfect life. Why fight it?”
“It’s not perfect,” Margaret whispered.
“Then what is it?”
“Family.”
“Family?” Angela laughed. “You think Oliver can replace a sister? A life together?”
“Annie—”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
The word left a hole in Margaret’s chest.
“Stay,” Angela said later, in the kitchen. “Not for me. For you. You know what he’s missing.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. He’s a good man, but he’s living someone else’s life. You’re keeping him locked up.”
Margaret trembled. “Get out.”
“Not now,” Angela said, apologetic. “I’ve nowhere else to be, and I’m tired of running.”
“Then I’ll tell him the truth.”
“Try,” Angela said softly. “But ask yourself this—what if he chooses me?”
That night, Margaret stared at the ceiling, heart aching. War had begun. And this time, the strongest would win.
