**Diary Entry**
I rose at dawn, made breakfast, packed my husband’s lunch, and only then went to wake him.
“Jane, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the hefty bag.
“You need something to eat for two days. No time to cook there—just heat it up. No fussing. There’s warm clothes in there too. Nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it cools,” I brushed him off.
He ate heartily, dressed, grabbed the bag.
“I’m off. Go back to sleep,” he said, stepping out.
I shut the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and glanced out the window. I knew halfway across the yard, John would turn and wave. Sure enough, he paused, looked back at the house, and raised his hand. I waved back. A small smile tugged at me—*like newlyweds*. A warm, quiet contentment settled in my chest.
Since retiring, I’d made a habit of seeing him off like this, whether to work or the countryside cottage. We’d been married twenty-six years. Not so long, given our ages. Both of us had history before this—other loves, other lives.
I hated being alone. Would’ve gone to the cottage with him, but I’d promised our daughter I’d watch little Oliver today. I sighed. Sleep was pointless now. Too early for vacuuming—the walls in these flats are thin, and neighbours relish a lie-in on weekends.
With nothing else to do, I lay down on the bed still in my dressing gown, mind wandering until I dozed off.
I dreamt of Gran’s old collie, Max—shaggy and huge. In the dream, he bounded up to me, tail wagging. “Max! Where’ve you come from?” I reached to pet him, but suddenly he bared his teeth. I jerked my hand back, bewildered—
I startled awake. The room was empty. No Max. He’d died of old age when I was fourteen. The clock showed I’d only slept ten minutes. I closed my eyes again. *Dreams of the dead mean storms ahead, and dogs mean kin*—the old saying flitted through my mind just as the doorbell rang. Who on earth at this hour?
I swung my legs off the bed, shoved on slippers, and hurried to the hall. The bell chimed again, impatient.
“Coming!” I grumbled, yanking the door open.
My stomach dropped. For a split second, I nearly slammed it shut again. They say your first instinct is the right one. Later, I’d wish I’d listened.
Standing there was the last person I wanted to see: my younger sister. My pulse thudded like a trapped bird.
“Hello, *sis*,” chirped Rebecca, stressing the word with a grin.
Her large front teeth jutted out slightly, gums pale pink when she smiled. *So much for dreams not meaning anything*, I thought, recalling Max’s snarl. The visit—after years of silence—spelled trouble.
We shared a mother, different fathers, and ten years between us. Mine died in a car crash; Mum remarried three years later and had Rebecca. We were nothing alike—me plump and petite with soft features, her tall and angular with those prominent teeth.
“Gonna leave me on the doorstep?” Rebecca teased, already stepping inside. She kicked off her heeled boots, fluffed her hair in the mirror, and turned. “Surprise, huh?” She moved to slip on John’s house shoes, but I handed her guest slippers—too small, but all I had.
“Show me around then,” she said, wandering into the living room, eyes darting over every detail. “Posher than I expected. Fancy furniture, nice decor…” She shot me a look. For a flash, I saw it—envy, sharp as a knife. Then the smile again, those teeth. Max’s snarl resurfaced in my mind.
“Landed well, didn’t you? Where’s the hubby?”
“At the cottage,” I muttered.
“Ooh, a *cottage* too? Proper bourgeoisie,” she drawled, the *tsk* in her voice saying, *We’ll see about that.*
“Why are you here?” I snapped, patience fraying.
“Missed you. We’ve only got each other now.” She studied a photo of my daughter and grandson. “This her?”
I didn’t answer.
“Me, I’ve been alone lately. Split with Mike ages ago. Two more husbands after him—waste of time, honestly. Same mould.”
“Snatch them from someone else too?” I couldn’t stop the jab.
“Oof, bitter much? Let bygones be bygones.” Another grin, uneven teeth on display. “I didn’t come to fight.”
“Then why? Nostalgia? Or just here to take something else?” The words tumbled out.
“Touchy. How old’s your daughter?” She ignored my tone.
“Twenty-eight.”
“So you married two years after me. Rushed the kid to keep your man, eh?” She threw her head back and laughed.
“John’s daughter,” I said too quickly, hating how defensive I sounded.
“Truce then. Fancy a cuppa?”
As she gushed over the kitchen—”Such taste! So tidy!”—I reheated the kettle.
“How long are you staying?”
“Already kicking me out?” The verbal tennis continued. I stayed silent, willing her to say she’d leave after tea.
“Just tonight? Hate hotels. John’s away anyway. Leaving tomorrow,” she said, dashing that hope.
“Where to?”
“The seaside. Wanted some sun one last time. Thought I’d drop in on my big sis first. Shame you’re not thrilled.” A theatrical sigh. “After all these years, still holding a grudge? I was stupid, alright? Mike and I crashed and burned. He’s married now—two boys. Happy, apparently. And you’re not exactly suffering. Worked out for everyone, really.”
I missed the “one last time,” but the old hurt flared.
“Forgive you? You ruined my life!”
“Please. You’re married, comfortable. And Mike? Middling in bed, honestly.”
The conversation looped—pointless, venomous. I poured tea, set out biscuits.
“Not joining me? Scared I’ll rub off on you?” She nodded at the lone cup.
“Already ate with John.”
“Ah.”
After tea, she asked, “Mind if I leave my stuff? Fancy a wander. You’ll be home?”
“Babysitting Oliver this afternoon.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Spare key? Don’t wanna wait outside.”
I hesitated but handed it over. Once she left, I checked my hiding spots—cash, documents, jewellery. With Rebecca, you never knew.
People don’t change. I should’ve turned her away. But she was family.
—
Back then, I was prettier but shy. Rebecca? Men trailed after her like stray dogs.
Mike and I dated since school. He proposed after his army service. Wedding plans were in full swing when I caught him in bed with Rebecca. I left town, couldn’t stomach the humiliation. She waltzed to the altar like it was nothing.
In the new city, I worked, lived in a bedsit. Mum’s letters begged me to forgive. I couldn’t—not her, not Mike.
Then I met John at a shop. His little girl, Lily, was bawling for a doll he couldn’t afford yet. I bought it. She clung to me, wouldn’t let go. His wife had died six months prior.
When he proposed, I said yes, though neither of us was in love. Lily called me “Mum” straight off. We grew into it. A miscarriage meant no children of our own, but I loved Lily fiercely.
—
Later, Lily phoned to remind me about Oliver.
On my way home that evening, every light in the flat blazed. My stomach knotted. Had John returned early?
The TV blared. Rebecca lounged with a wine glass, an empty box of chocolates at her feet. The room reeked of smoke.
I flung windows open. “Smoke outside!”
“Join me. Oh right—Saint Jane doesn’t drink.” Her words slurred as she drained the glass.
“When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Decided to stay two more days. Things to do. Relax, I’m not after your hubby. Or kicking me out?” Her glazed eyes mocked me.
Arguing was futile. John would handle it tomorrow.
—
At dawn, I finally slept, resolved to send her packing.
John returned early. I spilled everything. When Rebecca came back, I broached the hotel idea.
“You owe me,” she said flatly.
“After what you did?”
“Gran’s house. Dad fixed it up—it’s half mine.”
“We sold it. The cottage was cheaper to keep.”
“Mum left a will?”
“No. It was sudden. We couldn’t find you.” I hated how small IJohn handed her a thick envelope the next morning, and as she counted the cash with that same satisfied smirk, I finally understood—some debts aren’t measured in pounds, but in peace.
