**Diary Entry – A Sister’s Return**
“Don’t worry, I won’t overstay my welcome. Just a week or so while I sort out somewhere to live. You won’t turn me away, I hope?” said my sister.
I set breakfast on the table and went to wake my granddaughter. Eighteen-year-old Jenny had always been one for sleeping in.
“Jenny, up you get. You’ll be late for university.”
Jenny grumbled something and yanked the duvet over her head.
“Up half the night on that computer again? If you went to bed at a decent hour, mornings wouldn’t be such a struggle. Come on, I’m not giving up.” I tugged the covers off her.
“Granny…” she groaned, but she sat up, stretching her arms high, swaying slightly on her slender legs.
“Get a move on, your tea’s going cold,” I said, hurrying out before she could argue.
“Ugh, I’m so sick of everything,” Jenny muttered under her breath as she shuffled after me.
“I heard that. And who, exactly, is ‘everything’? Me, by any chance?” I stopped abruptly, and she nearly walked into me. “One more word like that, and I’ll take it to heart. Don’t like it? You’re welcome to go live with your mother.”
“Sorry, Gran.” Jenny pecked me on the cheek and bolted to the bathroom.
Little fox, I thought, shaking my head. Just another ordinary morning in an ordinary life. And before you know it, life slips right through your fingers. After I sent Jenny off, I’d settle down to work—thank goodness for remote jobs. My pension alone wouldn’t keep the roof over our heads.
I sat at the table, picking at last night’s leftover shepherd’s pie.
“Gran, I told you, I don’t eat breakfast, especially not leftovers,” Jenny’s voice carried from behind me. “I’ll have tea, but I’m not touching that.” She plopped into the chair opposite, giving me her best stubborn glare.
“Well, I’ll wrap a slice for you to take. Skin and bones, that’s all you are. Eat. I won’t have you starving all day.”
Jenny sighed and took a grudging bite, chewing as if it were poison.
Same dance every morning. Getting an extra bite into her took bribery or threats. This ridiculous obsession with being thin.
“That’s my girl.” I took my cup and plate—just in case Jenny decided to dump her half-eaten portion onto mine—and stacked them in the sink.
Jenny scarfed down the rest, gulped her tea, and slipped away before I could protest.
Before I’d even finished the washing up, a rustling came from the hallway. I hurried out.
“Knew you’d follow me. Stop hovering—I’m not a child. My outfit’s fine, see?” Jenny buttoned her coat and looped a scarf around her neck. Pre-empting me, she declared, “Not wearing a hat.”
“Don’t be late, or I’ll worry. And at my age, stress isn’t recommended,” I called after her as she dashed out.
Sighing, I locked up and headed to her room. Of course—bed unmade again. Fighting that battle was as useless as arguing about the hat. Even if she put it on, it’d be stuffed in her bag the second she was out the door. Oh well, who else would spoil her if not her gran?
I smoothed the duvet and retreated to my room to work. When the doorbell rang at noon, I glanced at the clock, rubbing my tired eyes. It chimed again, longer this time, more insistent.
I opened the door and froze. Before me stood a well-kept woman of uncertain age, dressed expensively, lips stretched in a smile under a coat of bright red lipstick. She didn’t speak. I didn’t either. I didn’t recognise her—not at first.
“Laura?!” I gasped.
Her smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real.
“I was wondering if you’d know me,” she said. “Mind if I come in, or are we doing this on the doorstep?” She hoisted a suitcase and a bulky holdall.
“Come in.” I stepped aside, still reeling. “Where on earth have you come from?”
“Where do you think?” She wheeled the suitcase in, the holdall taking up what little hallway space remained.
“Decided to come home. Had my fill of foreign lands—time to quit while I’m ahead. Still the same old place, I see.” Her sharp eyes skimmed the worn wallpaper, the scuffed linoleum.
“You’re staying?” I squeezed past to shut the door.
“Don’t panic, I won’t linger. Just a week or so while I find a place. You won’t kick me out, I hope?” Her tone wasn’t asking—it was stating. “Still alone, then? Never remarried?” She laughed raspily at her own joke.
“My granddaughter lives with me. She’s at uni. Where’s your daughter?”
“Daughter’s got her own life now, married again. Tea?” I called from the kitchen. “Sorry, wasn’t expecting you. Only leftovers—want some?”
“Do I?” came the reply, amused.
* * *
We’d never been close. Ten years between us, and the rivalry never faded—always that unspoken question: Who did our parents love more? Laura had treated me with condescension, like an afterthought.
I always thought they loved her more. She got new clothes; I got her hand-me-downs. Endless rows over it.
“Mum! She took my jumper without asking, got a stain on it,” Laura would wail before school.
“Did not! It’s three sizes too big on me—you spilled something and blamed me. Admit it, you just want a new one,” I’d shoot back.
She’d swipe at me, and I’d duck behind Mum.
“Enough! I’ll buy you a new one, just stop fighting,” Mum would promise.
And Laura would smirk, toss the old jumper my way, and stick out her tongue.
When she married right after school, I was thrilled—finally, no more sharing. But no, she’d still turn up, begging for money for coats, boots, whatever was in fashion. Mum always gave in. So once again, nothing left for me.
A year later, she divorced, swiftly remarried a Londoner, and visits grew rare. Not that money improved—I suspected Mum sent it secretly. Laura’s second marriage lasted longer, but she left him too, chasing some actor.
Then the Union fell apart, and off they went abroad. His acting career flopped—ended up pumping petrol. Laura wouldn’t stand for it. Traded him in for a wealthy, elderly Swede.
Calls home were sporadic. “Alive and well, can’t talk long—too expensive.”
Dark years followed. Dad couldn’t adjust, drank himself into an early grave. Mum never recovered, grew ill. I finished school, scraped into uni. When Laura next called, Mum begged for help.
“Nothing to spare,” Laura said. “Husband controls the money, and he’s stingy.” She never rang again. A year later, Mum was gone.
I called Laura myself. Her husband answered, his Russian broken. She didn’t come to the funeral.
Now here she was, out of nowhere. Thirty years? More? Childhood grudges had festered into adult resentments. We’d both grown used to life apart—preferred it, even.
Over tea, Laura confessed: When her husband died, his family threw her out. The will left everything to his ex-wife and daughter. Penniless, she’d struggled abroad before giving up and coming home.
“After Mum died, I married, had a daughter. Don’t even remember why we split. History repeated itself—daughter got pregnant young, divorced fast. Now she’s remarried, happy. Jenny and her stepdad never got on, though. So it’s just us.”
“I’ll never forgive you for not helping when things were hard. Not even coming to Mum’s funeral.”
“You think I had it easy? Miserly husband, no money. Barely scraped together the fare.”
“Why didn’t you call? I thought you were dead.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said, smiling with those blood-red lips.
After tea, she excused herself to rest in Jenny’s room—our old one. I couldn’t focus on work. Passing the hallway, I glared at her luggage, resisting the urge to kick it. Decades of bitterness simmering.
“Gran, is she staying? She’s not having my room,” Jenny said that evening, just as unimpressed by our sudden guest.
Three weeks passed. Laura lived like a queen—no cooking, no cleaning. When I gently asked her plans, she just said, “Had enough of me? I’ll be gone soon.”
No money, she’d claimed. Hoping to snag another rich widower? At seventy? UnlikelyAnd as I stood by her grave one last time, the autumn leaves swirling around me, I finally whispered the words I should have said years ago—”I forgive you, sister”—before turning away, knowing she had already forgiven me too.
