One day, I was meandering through Marks & Spencer and spotted my usually disinterested sister, Rebecca, sauntering along hand in hand with a very distinguished gentleman. They both had wedding rings firmly in place, looking every bit the smug newlyweds.
Rebecca and I, Charlotte, are identical twins. Since the moment we both squawked into the world, we were inseparable. We played the same silly games, whispered the same secrets, even landed ourselves in trouble together (a proper two-for-one deal on punishments). Whenever one of us was in a scrape, the other would leap in with all the misplaced confidence of a British bulldog. Our wardrobes consisted of perfectly matched jumpers and twirly skirts. Even when we hit adulthood and could theoretically dress ourselves, we still enjoyed confusing the neighbours by turning up looking like a two-for-one special from Debenhams. Frankly, we were outrageously proud of our twin status.
Our family didnt exactly swim in money. Dad was stuck at his nine-to-five, and Mum kept the books balanced with a level of budgeting that would impress the Chancellor of the Exchequer. When I took off for university in Leeds, Rebecca, of course, tried to do the samebut the coffers were too bare for us both. She was crushed. My parents, bless them, stretched themselves thin to cover our tuition fees, but money was always as tight as an over-steeped tea bag. Rebecca burned with embarrassment, guilt simmering just below the surface every time she checked her bank balance (more zeroes than numbers most of the time).
The real kicker came during a Sunday roast, when our gran, two G&Ts deep and feeling chatty, blurted out a family secret. Turns out, back when Mum and Dad realised theyd landed themselves with twins, they briefly considered re-homing the youngest meaning Rebecca. Apparently, the only thing that stopped them was the fear that splitting up twins was a bit much, even for them.
Rebecca was understandably gobsmackednot to mention livid. No matter how much Dad tried to smooth it over with another helping of Yorkshire puds, Rebecca wouldnt have it. She suddenly became convinced shed always been second best, so she marched down to my uni and withdrew her forms in a flourish of rebellion.
Cue a new phase of our family dramaRebecca started blaming everything on me. In her absence, she figured no one would have even considered giving her the boot; she wouldve been cherished, adored, the familys precious singleton. She spun up a whole world in which she alone reigned supreme, and the rest of us got shuffled out of her orbit. Overnight, our twin-tastic bond was shattered. She moved out. I got married to an accountant named Jonathan and had a cheeky little boy named Oliver, and we hardly ever crossed paths again.
The only time we did bump into each other was at our parents anniversary, and Rebecca spent the afternoon critiquing my mum chic (read: jeans, messy bun, no make-up) while she swanned about in full war paint, blow-dried hair, and designer shoes. She said I looked unpresentableas if Id rolled in straight from a car boot sale.
And, painful as it is to admit, there was a speck of truth in it. I am not one for faffing about with lipstick or hair straighteners, preferring comfort over couture, whereas Rebecca looks like shes stepped out of a beauty advert. Her life seemed far glossier than mine, and she made damned sure I noticed.
Naturally, I moaned to our mother, listing every injustice from the last twenty years. How could my own sister, my lifelong partner in crime, turn into such a snob? I asked, torn between exasperation and sadness. Where does all this rivalry come from, really?
Mum, displaying a wisdom found only in mothers who have weathered twin daughters, simply asked me not to hold grudges against Rebecca. Let her be happy, she said, with the world-weariness of someone who has refereed one family fallout too many. Just dont try to get close; leave her be.
So now, if I want to pop round to see my parents, I have to phone ahead to avoid an accidental run-in. Its funny, really: just a single careless sentence, and life for our family has been turned on its head, like dropping your mince pie face down and realising theres no saving it.
