In those days long past, when the air still smelled of wood smoke and life moved at a gentler pace, two sisters found their bond tested beyond repair.
“Hello, Vicky!” chirped Olivia, her voice bright as she dialled the number. “We thought we’d pop round to yours this weekend—may we?”
A frosty pause. Then: “No, you may not.”
Olivia faltered. “Pardon?”
“I said no,” Victoria snapped.
“Are you cross with me? I don’t understand—”
“You dare ask?” Victoria’s voice cracked like a whip. “After what you’ve done, I’ve no wish to know you!”
“What *have* I done? What on earth—?”
The Carrington sisters had grown up in a quaint village in the Cotswolds. The elder, Victoria, stayed rooted—qualifying as an accountant, marrying a local tradesman named William, raising their son Thomas, all while tending the family’s affairs. The younger, Olivia, chased city dreams. Off she went to Birmingham, became a shop assistant, wed a factory worker named Edward, and squeezed into a rented flat. Two years later, their daughter Lily arrived.
Distance never dulled their kinship. When Lily turned one, Olivia began frequent visits. “The country air’s wholesome,” she’d say, and Victoria welcomed them warmly. There was space enough, and Lily was a quiet child. Soon, Olivia left her daughter for days—then weeks—summers stretched to a full month. “Edward and I need a breather,” she’d explain. Victoria never refused, though working from home with a child underfoot was no small task.
Yet Olivia never repaid the kindness. Her cramped flat couldn’t host Victoria’s family; when they visited town, they lodged elsewhere. Olivia, meanwhile, was often “busy”—a salon appointment, errands. Sometimes they’d squeeze in an hour’s visit. That was all.
Victoria swallowed her hurt. *Family’s family*, she told herself.
Years rolled on. Thomas grew, aiming for university. His parents had saved for tuition. Then, days before applications, Victoria fell gravely ill—fever, chills. William promised to drive Thomas but couldn’t stay; work demanded him.
So Victoria whispered into the phone:
“Livvy… might you help Tom tomorrow? Take him to the university, see his papers sorted? He could even stay the night. Will would fetch him at dawn—”
Silence. Then:
“Awfully sorry. Can’t manage it.”
Victoria’s breath caught. “*Why?*”
“Salon booking, then shopping—Lily’s off to camp soon, you see—”
“Olivia, I’ve *never* asked a favour. Just one day—”
“Honestly, it’s impossible.”
“A night, then! He’ll sleep on the floor!”
“Vicky, he’s *sixteen*. Where’d I put him? Lily’s room? They’re both teens—hardly proper. Or our poky kitchen?”
Victoria’s eyes stung. Not once had she refused her sister. Sheltered, fed, cared—and *this* was her thanks?
“Right. I see,” she murmured.
In the end, a distant cousin of William’s—a man they barely knew—stepped in. He escorted Thomas, lodged him, even showed him the city.
Thomas was admitted. His parents rented him lodgings. He grew steady, reliable. Yet Victoria couldn’t forget: in her darkest hour, her own flesh and blood had turned away.
A month later, the phone rang.
“Hello! Fancy us visiting next week? Lily’s on holiday, and I’ve leave—”
“No,” said Victoria, calm as stone.
“…No?”
“Precisely. You shan’t stay here again. Want country air? Rent a cottage. But don’t look to me.”
“Is this about Tom?”
“Yes. *One* favour I asked—one!—and you chose salons over family. Years you spent under my roof, yet when *I* needed aid—”
“Oh, don’t be like that—”
“We’re done.”
And so they were. Lily and Thomas still spoke; Victoria didn’t hinder them. The girl bore no blame. But never again did she sleep under that roof.
As for Olivia? Years later, she nursed no guilt. *Her house is large—what’s the bother?* Yet neither she nor Lily ever crossed that threshold again.
Sometimes, it’s better to have no sister at all than one who vanishes when the storm breaks.
