“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long—just a week or so until I sort out my living situation. You won’t throw me out, I hope?” said Margaret’s sister.
Grace 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 mumbled something incoherent and pulled the duvet over her head.
“Up all night on your laptop again? If you went to bed on time, mornings wouldn’t be such a slog. I’m not leaving till you’re up.” Grace yanked the covers off.
“Ugh, Nan…” Jenny groaned, but she sat up, stretching her arms above her head and swaying slightly on her slender legs.
“Get a move on—your tea’s going cold,” Grace called over her shoulder as she left the room.
“I’m so fed up with everything,” Jenny muttered under her breath, trailing behind.
“I heard that. And who, exactly, has ‘fed you up’? Me, by any chance?” Grace stopped abruptly, making Jenny bump into her. “One more word, and I’ll take it personally. If you’re unhappy, you’re welcome to go live with your mum.”
“Sorry, Nan.” Jenny pecked Grace on the cheek and darted to the bathroom.
Grace shook her head. “Little fox.” Another ordinary morning in an ordinary day. Life slipped by unnoticed. “I’ll see Jenny off to uni, then get to work. Thank goodness I can work from home—my pension alone wouldn’t keep us afloat.”
She sat at the table and picked at a slice of last night’s shepherd’s pie.
“Nan, I told you I don’t eat breakfast, especially not leftovers,” Jenny’s voice grumbled behind her. “I’ll have tea, but not this.” She plopped into the chair opposite, scowling.
“Then I’ll pack some for you. Skin and bones, you are. You’ll starve all day if I don’t make you eat.”
Jenny sighed and took a grudging bite, her face twisting as if she’d swallowed a slug.
This was their morning ritual. Getting Jenny to eat required bribery or threats—thanks to this ridiculous diet craze.
“There’s a good girl.” Grace snatched her own cup and empty plate before Jenny could ditch her half-eaten portion, then dumped them in the sink.
Jenny forced down the food, gulped her tea, and slithered out of her chair.
Grace hadn’t even finished washing up when she heard rustling from the hallway. She hurried over.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop treating me like a kid. My outfit’s fine, see?” Jenny zipped up her jacket and looped a scarf around her neck. Preempting the argument, she added, “And I’m not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t be late, or I’ll worry. And at my age, stress isn’t good for me,” Grace said to Jenny’s retreating back.
Sighing, Grace locked the door behind her and headed to Jenny’s room. Unmade bed again. Fighting it was as pointless as arguing over the hat—even if she wore it, it’d be stuffed into her bag the second she left. “Well, who else will spoil her if not her nan?” Grace smoothed the quilt.
She settled at her desk, glasses perched on her nose, until the doorbell rang at noon. Rubbing her tired eyes, she ignored it—until it rang again, longer and more insistent.
Grace opened the door to a polished woman of indeterminate age, dressed expensively, lips stretched in a smile too red to be natural. She froze. The woman said nothing. Grace didn’t recognise her—not at first.
“Margaret?!” she gasped.
The woman’s grin widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real.
“I was wondering if you’d know me,” said her sister. “Going to let me in? Or shall I stand here all day?” She hoisted a suitcase and a bulging holdall.
“Come in.” Grace stepped aside, still reeling. “Where’ve you come from?”
“A long way,” Margaret said, wheeling her luggage inside and taking up the entire hallway.
“Thought I’d come home. Had enough of foreign lands—time to settle back. Place hasn’t changed.” Her sharp eyes skimmed the peeling wallpaper and scuffed linoleum.
“For good?” Grace edged past to lock the door.
“Don’t fret—I’ll only stay a week or so while I find my own place. You won’t toss me out, will you?” It wasn’t a question. “Still single, then?” She laughed, a raspy chuckle at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni now.”
“Grown up fast. And your daughter?”
“Lives with her husband. Take your coat off—I’ll put the kettle on. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Only got leftover shepherd’s pie. Fancy some?” Grace called from the kitchen.
“Do I?” Margaret smirked.
***
They’d never been close—the ten-year age gap saw to that. Some said sisters spent their lives vying for parental affection, and Margaret had always treated Grace with condescension, as if to say, “I never asked for you.”
Grace believed their parents loved Margaret more. She hogged their attention, always got new clothes while Grace wore hand-me-downs. Fights erupted constantly.
“Mum! She took my jumper without asking—got a stain on it!” Margaret would wail.
“I didn’t! It’s three sizes too big—you just want a new one!” Grace retorted.
Margaret would swipe at her, and Grace would duck behind their mother.
“Enough! I’ll buy you a new jumper—just stop bickering,” Mum would promise.
Exactly what Margaret wanted. She’d smirk, flick her hair, and toss the old jumper at Grace.
When Margaret married straight after school, Grace rejoiced—now everything would be hers. But no. Margaret still wheedled money for coats, boots, anything expensive. Mum always gave in. Grace went without.
A year later, Margaret divorced and remarried a Londoner, visiting rarely. Yet money never stayed in the house—Grace suspected Mum sent it secretly. Husband number two lasted longer, but she left him for some actor.
Then the Soviet Union collapsed, and the actor fled abroad, working at a petrol station—hardly the glamour Margaret craved. She ditched him for an elderly, wealthy Swede.
Calls home were rare—just quick “I’m alive” updates, always cutting short: “Too expensive to talk.”
Times were hard. Dad drank himself to ruin, lost his job, died in a brawl. Mum sank into grief. Grace scraped into university, studying economics. When Margaret called, Mum begged for help.
Margaret claimed she had nothing—her husband controlled the money. After that, she vanished. Mum died a year later. When Grace called, the Swede answered, barely understanding. Margaret didn’t come to the funeral.
Now, after thirty years, she’d dropped in like a bomb. Childhood grudges had festered into adult resentment. They’d lived fine without each other—until today.
Over tea, Margaret confessed: when her husband died, his family evicted her. His will left everything to his ex-wife and daughter. Penniless, she’d struggled abroad before coming home.
“After Mum died, I married, had a daughter. Marriage didn’t last—no idea why. My girl followed your path—got pregnant young, divorced fast, remarried now. But Jenny and her stepdad never got on. Her mum’s got her own life. So it’s just us,” Grace said.
“I’ll never forgive you for abandoning us—not even coming to Mum’s funeral,” Grace added bitterly.
“You think I had it easy? My husband was stingy, then left me with nothing. Barely scraped together the fare,” Margaret deflected.
“Why didn’t you call? I thought you were dead.”
“Then I’ll live a long time,” Margaret quipped, scarlet lips curling.
After tea, she retired to Jenny’s room—their old childhood bedroom. Grace couldn’t focus on work. Passing the hallway, she glared at the luggage, resisting the urge to kick it. A lifetime of resentment simmered.
“Nan, is she staying? I’m not giving her my room,” Jenny declared later, unimpressed by her sudden aunt.
Three weeks passed. Margaret lived like a guest—no cooking, no cleaning. When Grace gently asked about her plans, Margaret just smirked. “Worn out your welcome? I’ll be gone soon.”
Grace doubted she had money—or suitors now, at seventy. But she couldn’t throw her out.
Groceries for three drained Grace’s funds fast. Her irritation grew. Margaret never appeared without full makeup, dressed like she was off to the theatre. “Preening like a peacock. Doesn’t she see how baggy her clothes are?” Grace grumbled.
Then Margaret fainted. The ambulance took her away.
“Which hospital?” Grace asked.Grace realized too late that pride had stolen the chance to truly know her sister, and now all that remained were unspoken words and a grave she’d visit every Sunday.
