“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. Just a week or so until I sort out my own place. You won’t kick me out, I hope?” said the sister.
Margaret set breakfast on the table and went to wake her granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny loved sleeping in.
“Jenny, get up. You’ll be late for uni.”
Jenny groaned and pulled the duvet over her head.
“Up half the night on your laptop again? If you went to bed on time, mornings wouldn’t be such a struggle. I’m not letting you off. Up you get.” Margaret tugged the covers away.
“Ugh, Gran…” Jenny grumbled, but she dragged herself up anyway, yawning and stretching her arms high, swaying on her slender legs.
“Chop-chop, your tea’s going cold,” Margaret urged before leaving the room.
“God, I’m so done with everything,” Jenny muttered under her breath, shuffling after her.
“I heard that. Who’s *so done* with you, then? Me, is it?” Margaret stopped abruptly, making Jenny bump into her. “Another word and I’ll be offended. Don’t like it? You’re welcome to go live with your mum.”
“Sorry, Gran.” Jenny pecked her on the cheek and bolted to the bathroom.
“Little fox,” Margaret shook her head. “Just another ordinary morning in an ordinary life. And before you know it, life’s slipped right by,” she suddenly thought. “Once Jenny’s off to uni, I’ll get to work. Thank goodness for remote jobs—my pension wouldn’t stretch far enough.”
She sat at the table and picked at yesterday’s leftover crumble.
“Gran, I told you I don’t eat breakfast, *especially* not crumble,” Jenny’s voice carried from behind her. “I’ll have tea, but no crumble.” She plopped down opposite, fixing Margaret with a stubborn glare.
“Fine, I’ll pack a slice for you. Skin and bones, you are. Eat. You’ll be starving by evening.”
Jenny sighed and took a reluctant bite, chewing as if it were poison.
Same routine every morning. Getting an extra bite into Jenny took begging and borderline blackmail. Oh, the tyranny of diet culture.
“There’s a good girl.” Margaret grabbed her cup and plate—before Jenny could dump her unfinished slice on it—and moved them to the sink.
Jenny swallowed the last bite, gulped her tea, and slipped away from the table.
Before Margaret could finish washing up, rustling came from the hallway. She hurried over.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop treating me like a kid. Look, I’m dressed fine, see?” Jenny fastened her jacket and looped a scarf around her neck. Cutting her grandmother off, she insisted, “I’m not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t be late, or I’ll worry. And at my age, stress isn’t good,” Margaret called after her as Jenny darted out.
Sighing, Margaret locked the door and headed to Jenny’s room. Unmade bed, as usual. Fighting it was as pointless as arguing over the hat—even if she did wear it, it’d be stuffed in her bag the second she stepped outside. “Ah well, who’ll spoil her if not her gran?” Margaret straightened the duvet.
She settled at her computer in her own room. When the doorbell rang, she checked the clock—noon. Rubbing her tired eyes, she took off her glasses. The bell rang again, longer and more insistent.
Opening the door, she found a well-kept woman of indeterminate age, dressed expensively, with bright red lipstick stretched into a smile. Margaret froze. The woman stayed silent. Recognition hit—more a guess than memory.
“Lorraine?!” she gasped.
The woman’s grin widened, revealing unnaturally white, perfectly even teeth.
“Was wondering if you’d recognise me,” said her sister. “Am I coming in? Or will you leave me on the doorstep?” Lorraine hoisted a suitcase and a bulky holdall.
“Come in.” Margaret stepped aside, still stunned. “Where’ve you come from?”
“Where d’you think?” The older sister wheeled her luggage in, crowding the narrow hallway with her bags. “Decided to come home. Had enough of foreign lands—time to settle back. Still the same old place, I see.” Lorraine’s sharp eyes took in the scuffed wallpaper, the worn linoleum.
“Is this for good?” Margaret edged past to shut the door.
“Don’t panic, I won’t outstay my welcome. A week or two, just till I find a place. You won’t toss me out, I hope?” It wasn’t a question. “Still single, then?” Lorraine cackled hoarsely at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni now.”
“Blimey, grown up already. And your daughter?”
“Married, living separately. Get yourself settled—I’ll put the kettle on. Sorry, wasn’t expecting you, so it’s just leftover crumble with tea. Fancy some?” Margaret called from the kitchen.
“Need you ask?” Lorraine smirked.
***
They’d never been close, the ten-year age gap didn’t help. They say sisters spend a lifetime arguing over who was loved more. Lorraine had always been condescending, dismissive, as if to say, “I never asked for a little sister.”
Margaret felt their parents favoured Lorraine—she hogged all the attention, got new clothes because she was older. Margaret wore hand-me-downs.
Fights were frequent. Margaret longed for pretty new dresses, but there was never enough money.
“Mum! She took my jumper without asking, got a stain on it!” Lorraine would shriek before school.
“I didn’t! It’s three sizes too big on me—you’re the one who stained it. Bet you just want a new one!” Margaret retorted.
Lorraine would lunge at her, and Margaret would duck behind their mother.
“Enough! I’ll buy you a new jumper, just stop bickering,” Mum would promise.
Lorraine got exactly what she wanted. She’d smirk, stick her tongue out, and fling the old jumper at Margaret.
When Lorraine married straight out of school, Margaret rejoiced—now she’d get everything. But no. Lorraine still came begging—money for a coat, for “must-have” boots. Mum always gave in. Margaret went without.
A year later, Lorraine divorced and swiftly married a Londoner. Visits grew rare. Money stayed tight—Margaret suspected Mum sent cash by post. Lorraine’s second marriage lasted longer, but she left him for some pretty-boy actor.
Years passed, the country changed, and the unappreciated actor seized the chance to emigrate. His career floundered there too—he ended up pumping petrol. Lorraine wasn’t having it. She traded him for an elderly but wealthy Swede.
Calls home were rare. Just quick check-ins—”I’m alive, it’s expensive to talk.”
Times were hard. Dad drowned his sorrows, lost his job, died in a brawl. Mum never recovered, fell ill. Margaret graduated, scraped through uni on pennies. When Lorraine called once, Mum pleaded for help.
Lorraine claimed she had nothing—her husband controlled the money. The calls stopped. Mum died a year later.
Margaret rang Lorraine herself, but the husband answered. His Russian was broken, his understanding worse. Lorraine never came to the funeral.
Now, out of nowhere, here she was. How long had it been? Thirty years? Childhood resentments had festered into adult ones, so their reunion was frosty. Both were used to life apart—it suited them.
Over tea, Lorraine confessed that when her husband died, his family threw her out. His will left everything to his ex-wife and daughter. Penniless, she’d struggled abroad before giving up and coming home.
“I married after Mum died, had a daughter. Can’t even remember why we split. Then history repeated—my girl got pregnant young, married too soon. It didn’t last. She’s remarried now, happy. But Jenny never took to her stepdad. My daughter’s got her own life—Jenny and I have ours,” Margaret shared.
“I still can’t forgive you. You left us struggling. Didn’t even come to Mum’s funeral,” Margaret added bitterly.
“Think I had it easy? Tight-fisted husband, no money. I barely scraped together the fare back,” Lorraine defended.
“Why didn’t you call? I thought you were dead.”
“Guess I’ll live forever, then,” Lorraine joked, lips stretching crimson.
After tea, she excused herself to rest—in Jenny’s old room, their childhood bedroom. Margaret couldn’t focus on work. Passing the hallway, she glared at the suitcase, fighting the urge to kick it. A lifetime of resentment simmered.
“Gran, is she staying? That’s *my* room,” Jenny protested later, unimpressed by her sudden aunt.
Three weeks passed. Lorraine lived like a guest—no chores, no cooking. Margaret gently asked about herOne evening, as the rain tapped softly against the window, Margaret sat alone in the quiet house, the weight of unspoken forgiveness still lingering in the air like the scent of old letters and fading memories.
