That summer day by the river…
Vera’s family was close-knit. When she was in Year 3, her little sister Lottie was born. Vera adored being the big sister and Mum’s right hand. She happily pushed the pram while Mum cooked or cleaned the flat.
By the time Lottie was old enough for nursery, the places were full—not enough staff, not enough pay to make the job worth it. The manager said she’d take Lottie if Mum worked there. Mum agreed, even though the pay was worse than her old job.
Lottie had always been frail, sickly—the baby everyone fussed over. At nursery, Mum kept a close eye on her. After school, Vera often popped in to see Mum. Not all kids loved the baked custard, salads, cocoa, or jelly, but Vera couldn’t get enough. Mum saved her the untouched portions, and Vera devoured them.
Once she’d had her fill, she’d take Lottie home and look after her till Mum got back. She adored her sister—back before Lottie grew up and turned into a proper nightmare.
Lottie was four when their dad died. That summer was brutal—three straight weeks of scorching heat above 90 degrees. Weekends, everyone fled the stifling city for the countryside or the river.
Their parents packed snacks, water, and the girls, heading out early. The riverbank was packed—no room to swing a cat. Everyone cooled off in the sun-warmed water. Kids splashed near the shore while adults kept watch. Lottie paddled close while Vera made sure she didn’t wander too deep.
When Dad dove in with a splash, Vera assumed he was just swimming. But then she spotted two lads struggling mid-river. At first, she thought they were messing about. Who’d let kids swim that far out? The river was wide—even a strong swimmer would struggle to cross.
One lad kept sinking; the other kept diving after him. When she saw Dad swimming toward them, she realised—they weren’t playing. They were drowning.
No one else noticed. People laughed, splashed, oblivious. Vera forgot about Lottie, her eyes locked on Dad and the boys.
He reached them, dragged one up, and started back—slowly, one arm paddling, the other keeping the lad’s head above water. The second boy clung to him, fighting for air.
“He’ll drown them both!” Vera shouted.
Two men heard, looked, then rushed to help. Others on the bank turned to see. The men took the lads, and Vera waved, relieved—until she realised Dad was gone.
“Dad! DAD!” she screamed. Mum came running.
“There…” Vera pointed frantically. “He’s gone!”
Mum scooped up Lottie, scanning the water. “There he is!” she’d say, but Vera shook her head, still pointing to the middle.
The men got the boys ashore, then went back for Dad. When they pulled him out, it was too late. Mum refused to leave, refusing to believe it. Vera hushed Lottie’s sobs.
After the funeral, Mum moved like a ghost, barely seeing the girls. Vera took Lottie to nursery, raced to school, then fetched her again. Lottie whined, wanting Mum.
“Mum’s poorly,” Vera said.
“Then Dad should get me,” Lottie sniffled.
Home was worse—Mum still on the sofa, facing the wall. She wouldn’t eat. Terrified, Vera begged the neighbour for help. After that talk, Mum got up, cleaned, went back to work. Lottie was thrilled.
Now it was just the three of them. At first, they scraped by—the railway where Dad worked gave them a payout, and they had savings. The nursery helped; Mum brought home leftovers. Vera suspected she wasn’t eating, saving it for them.
After school, Vera wanted to work, not study, to help Mum. But Mum wouldn’t hear of it. “Your dad wouldn’t want this,” she said, pushing Vera toward an Open University degree. “Qualifications matter.” So Vera caved, picked the course with the most funded spots, and got a job. The pay was rubbish, but money didn’t grow on trees.
Dad had once bought land, dreaming of a big house, a garden. Mum wanted flowers by the windows. But all he’d managed was the foundations. A friend offered to buy the plot, and Mum sold it cheap, just to get by.
Lottie grew up demanding—new clothes, a phone, a tablet. “Everyone’s got one!” If she didn’t get her way, she’d scream, “You shouldn’t have had me!” She ran off twice, spoiled rotten.
“We’re not eating nursery leftovers!” She’d wrinkle her nose. She never visited Mum after school like Vera had. She stayed out late, flunked classes.
That summer, the neighbour’s nephew, Oliver, visited. Vera fell for him hard. But his holiday ended too soon. He begged her to come to London. She wanted to—but how could she leave Mum with Lottie? So she stayed. He left, promising to call.
By winter, Lottie wanted a fur coat like her mate’s. Vera snapped, “I worked summers delivering papers, scrubbing floors. Earn your own money!”
Lottie threw a fit. Mum borrowed cash and bought the coat.
“Why enable her?” Vera hissed.
“She’s got no dad. Who’ll spoil her but me?”
“She’s not a kid! You’re in rags while she preens. She’ll ruin you.”
Vera regretted staying.
Oliver called, even visited at Christmas. Lottie barely passed school, didn’t bother with uni. That summer, Oliver returned. Vera’s work refused her time off. She only saw him evenings.
Then suddenly, he left—friends inviting him river-rafting. Vera was gutted. She couldn’t even see him off.
Home that night, she found Lottie’s note: “Gone to London. Want to be an actress. Don’t look for me.” And she’d taken their savings.
Vera pieced it together. Lottie was stunning—no wonder Oliver fancied her. She called him. He confessed. “Send her home,” Vera demanded.
“Don’t worry. I’ll look after her.”
Mum came home to Vera in tears.
“Where’s Lottie?”
“Ran off with my boyfriend.” Vera showed the note.
“You spoiled her. ‘Poor fatherless girl’—well, she’s repaid us!”
“Find her,” Mum begged.
“No. She’ll come back.”
A year later, Lottie returned—with a baby. Mum was at work. Lottie walked in, dropped a whimpering bundle on the sofa.
“Her name’s Elsie,” she said flatly. “Clothes, formula, papers in the bag.”
“What?! Whose is she? Oliver’s?”
Lottie turned to leave. Vera grabbed her. “You’re leaving her?!”
“You’ll do better than me.”
Vera froze. The door slammed.
Mum sobbed, “You let her go?!”
“And leave the baby? I’m not her. She named her like a pet. Elsie’s mine now.”
Lottie never came back—not for six years. Elsie shied away from her.
“You’re beautiful,” Vera lied when Elsie asked why Lottie stared.
Alone, Vera spat, “Why’d you come? She’s mine now.”
Lottie looked rough—chain-smoking, coughing. Mum scolded her.
“Can I stay tonight?”
Mum made up the sofa.
That night, Vera found her smoking by the window.
“You alright?”
“Don’t tell Mum. You were a good sister. A better mum than I’d ever be. Sorry about Oliver.”
“What’s wrong? Let me help.”
“Liar. You hate me.” She stubbed out the fag. “Go to bed.”
By morning, Lottie was gone—money left on the table.
“Let her go,” Vera said.
Time passed. Mum’s health failed—heart, joints—no surgery possible.
“Promise you’ll help Lottie if I die,” Mum begged.
Vera vowed.
Then the hospice called. Vera and Elsie rushed to London. Lottie was skeletal, unrecognisable.
“Thanks for coming,” she rasped. “How’s Mum?”
“Gone. Six months now.”
Lottie cried. Vera wiped her tears.
“I remember Dad drowning,” Lottie whispered. “I blamed myself. You couldn’t save him because of me.”
“Don’t be daft. I couldn’t swim that far.”
“You’re strong. You could’ve…” She coughed.
She died next day. Buried separate—no room by Mum and Dad.
Elsie never liked visiting the grave.
“I look like her. Feels like mine.”
Soon, Vera thought, Elsie’d grow up. She’d be aloneAnd as Vera stood by the river once more, watching Elsie chase butterflies along the bank, she realised that some stories don’t truly end—they just change shape.
