**Sisters, or The Price of Neglect…**
Mum adored the actress Alice Eve, so she named her daughter after her.
Dad left when Alice was eight. Life grew harder, yet the daily shouting finally stopped. Alice was old enough to understand why her parents fought.
Mum would scream that Dad couldn’t resist flirting with every woman he met. What Alice couldn’t grasp was why those young, pretty women would ever choose a man who already had a wife and child.
*”I’ve had enough. I won’t listen to your baseless accusations. I’d rather spend time with my mates than with you,”* Dad would yell before slamming the door.
Alice was relieved when he wasn’t home. No tears, no shouting. Besides, Dad barely noticed her—always at work, returning when she was asleep, or out with friends on weekends.
One fight was worse than usual—shattered plates, voices raw with rage.
*”You don’t care about us, about your own daughter! You’re abandoning her too!”* Mum sobbed.
*”Fine, I’ll take her with me, then,”* Dad shot back.
*”And your new wife won’t mind? She’s already got a son she never watches—a right little hooligan!”*
Alice pressed her hands over her ears, trembling. Then—silence. She tiptoed out only to find Mum sweeping broken china, eyes swollen.
*”Scared? Don’t be.”* Mum hugged her tight. *”Fancy some tea and biscuits?”*
Later that summer, Mum sent Alice to stay with Nan—Dad’s mother. Nan was kind, always scolding her son for his choices. Alice missed Mum, but Nan insisted she needed time to find a *proper* father for her.
*”I don’t need anyone but Mum,”* Alice insisted.
When Mum fetched her in August, they clung to each other, elated. But Nan’s hushed words haunted Alice: *”When will you tell her?”*
*”I’ll handle it,”* Mum murmured.
Then came Uncle Henry—a smiling man who brought chocolates and moved in. Some girls at school had stepdads; some were lovely, others strict. Alice feared Henry might be the latter. But he bought her sweets, and Mum glowed beside him. Still, Alice kept her distance.
Life shifted quietly—no more fights, but fewer bedtime stories. *”You’re big now—read to yourself,”* Mum would say, flicking off the light.
One day, Mum asked if Alice wanted a sibling.
*”No,”* she said.
Yet six months later, baby Sophie arrived—squalling, always in Mum’s arms. Alice seethed with jealousy.
*”She’ll grow. You’ll play together,”* Henry promised.
Alice watched Sophie wriggle in her cot, resenting this stranger. *No one asks children what they want.*
Then Henry died suddenly—a blood clot, the doctor said. Mum shut down, grief-stricken.
One afternoon, Sophie tumbled off a slide, blood trickling down her forehead. Alice sprinted home with her, but Sophie lied: *”Alice pushed me!”*
Mum exploded. *”Get out!”*
From then on, Alice was invisible. Mum doted only on Sophie—the last piece of Henry.
*”You’ve got a living father,”* Mum snapped when Alice voiced her hurt. *”Sophie’s an orphan.”*
*”What father? He vanished! You’ve replaced me!”*
Useless. Alice moved out the second she could, marrying Rob, a working student. She visited Mum occasionally, bringing Sophie toys, but conversations always circled back to *her*.
When Mum fell ill—cancer, aggressive—Alice juggled hospital visits with raising twin boys. Sophie barely showed up, excusing herself with *”Uni stress”* or *”I’ve got a life!”*
Mum’s dying wish? A folder of documents. After the funeral, Alice opened it—the will left everything to *her*.
Sophie stormed in, reeking of entitlement. *”Sell the flat. Split it.”*
Rob warned, *”Don’t yield. Think of the boys.”*
But guilt won. Alice sold the flat, gave Sophie half.
Sophie still whined. *”It’s not enough!”*
*”Get your bloke to chip in,”* Alice retorted.
They never spoke again.
**Lesson:** When parents split, children pay—in silence, in scars. Sometimes, half a flat is the price for a mother’s withheld love.
