“Sis Let Me Down When I Needed Her Most – And Now We Don’t Speak”
“Hiya, Vicky!” chirped Sophie down the phone, all cheer. “Fancy us popping round yours this weekend?”
“Hello,” came the frosty reply. “No, you can’t.”
“Come again?” Sophie blinked.
“I mean exactly that,” Victoria snapped.
“Are you cross about something? I don’t get it—”
“You’re seriously asking?” Victoria’s voice sharpened. “After what you pulled, I don’t want anything to do with you!”
“What did I even do? What’s this about?”
The Platt sisters grew up in a sleepy Yorkshire village. Victoria, the elder, never left—qualified as an accountant, married local entrepreneur Gary, built a house, had a son, Oliver, and helped run the family business.
Sophie, though? City life was her dream. She swanned off to Manchester for college, stayed put, landed a job at a department store, and married factory worker Dave. They rented a poky two-bed flat, and two years later, little Emily arrived.
Despite the distance, the sisters stayed close. When Emily turned one, Sophie became a regular at Victoria’s—fresh air for the kiddo, and who’d say no to free babysitting? Weekend stays stretched to whole summers.
Victoria never minded. The house was big, Emily was sweet, and working from home meant she could manage. Sure, it was a faff, but family’s family.
Sophie, though? Not so big on returning favours. Their shoebox flat couldn’t fit guests, so when Victoria’s lot visited Manchester, they shelled out for a hotel. Sophie, meanwhile, was often “too busy”—nails booked, or some other flimsy excuse. The odd cuppa at hers was the best they got.
Victoria let it slide. So long as the cousins got on, and Sophie—flaws and all—was still her sister.
Then Oliver hit uni age. Gary was happy to foot the tuition, but just before applications, Victoria came down with flu—properly poorly. Gary promised to drive Oliver to campus, but he couldn’t stay—work called.
So Victoria swallowed her pride and rang Sophie:
“Love,” she croaked, “could you meet Ollie tomorrow? Help him with the paperwork, maybe let him kip at yours? Gary’ll fetch him next morning—”
Silence. Then:
“Sorry, can’t. Hair appointment, then shopping for Emily—she’s off to camp soon.”
“But—I’ve never asked you for anything. It’s one day!”
“Honestly, it’s just not doable,” Sophie breezed.
“Fine. Understood,” Victoria murmured.
In the end, Gary’s distant cousin—a bloke they barely knew—steamed in, whisked Oliver round, even gave him a tour of the city.
Oliver got in. They rented him a flat. He turned out grand—polite, hardworking. But Victoria couldn’t shake it: when push came to shove, her own sister couldn’t be bothered.
A month later, Sophie rang again:
“Hiya! Fancy me and Emily coming down next week? Half-term, and I’ve got leave!”
“No,” said Victoria, calm as you please.
“…No?”
“Correct. You’re not staying here again. Want countryside air? Book a B&B. But my help’s off the table.”
“Is this about Ollie?”
“Spot on. One tiny ask, and you swanned off to a salon. Years of free holidays at mine, and you couldn’t spare a single afternoon.”
“Look, I’m sorry—”
“Too late,” Victoria cut in.
They haven’t spoken since. Emily and Oliver still chat—Victoria wouldn’t stop that. The girl’s not to blame. But she’s never stayed over again.
Sophie, even now, doesn’t see the fuss. “She’s got loads of room—what’s the big deal?” But that big house’s door stayed shut.
Sometimes no sister’s better than one who vanishes when you need her most.
