**Diary Entry – April 12th**
“Hello, Vicky!” I chirped, dialling her number. “Thought we’d pop round yours this weekend—would that be alright?”
“Hello,” came her icy reply. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Pardon?” I faltered.
“I said no.”
“Are you upset about something? I don’t understand…”
“You’re really asking? After what you did, I don’t want anything to do with you!” she snapped.
“What did I even do?”
The Thompson sisters grew up in a quiet Yorkshire village. The eldest, Victoria, stayed after school—qualified as an accountant, married a local businessman, Richard, built a lovely home, and raised their son, Oliver. Meanwhile, I’d always dreamed of city life. I moved to Manchester for college, stayed on, and worked as a shop assistant. My husband, Mark, a factory worker, and I rented a tiny flat when our daughter, Emily, was born.
Despite the distance, we kept in touch. Once Emily turned one, I’d often visit Victoria—fresh air for the baby, and an extra pair of hands never hurt. Weekends turned into weeks; summers stretched to a month. She never complained. With her home office, she managed, though it wasn’t easy.
But I never returned the favour. Our shoebox flat couldn’t host them, so when Victoria visited, they’d rent a place while I made excuses—hair appointments, errands. Sometimes, they’d drop by for a cuppa, and that was it. Still, Victoria never held it against me. “As long as the kids get on,” she’d say.
Then Oliver got into university. Richard would drive him but couldn’t stay—work called. So Victoria rang me, voice weak from fever: “Jenny, love—could you meet Oliver tomorrow? Help him with the paperwork? Maybe let him kip on your sofa? Richard’ll fetch him in the morning.”
A long pause.
“Sorry, can’t,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“I’ve got a salon booking, then shopping with Emily—she’s off to camp soon.”
“Jenny, I’ve never asked you for anything. Just one day—”
“Really can’t,” I cut in.
“Even just the sofa?”
“Jen, he’s nearly grown. Where’s he supposed to sleep? Emily’s room? Bit awkward, isn’t it? Our kitchen’s smaller than your cupboard—you know that.”
I heard her breath hitch. Years of welcome, meals, help—and this was her thanks.
“Right. Understood,” she said softly.
In the end, Richard’s distant cousin stepped in—barely knew the man, yet he took Oliver in, sorted his forms, even gave him a tour of Manchester. Oliver got his place. But Victoria never forgot: the one time she needed me, I chose a haircut over family.
A month later, I rang: “Hi! Fancy hosting us next week? I’m on leave, Emily’s off school—”
“No,” she said coolly.
“What d’you mean, no?”
“Exactly that. You’re not staying here again. Want a countryside break? Rent somewhere. But don’t expect my help.”
“Is this about Oliver?”
“Yes. One ask, Jenny. One. Years of you lot holidaying at mine, and when I needed you? Too busy bleaching your roots.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t bother.”
We’ve not spoken since. Emily and Oliver still chat—Victoria wouldn’t stop that. But that house door’s shut to us for good.
Funny, isn’t it? Sometimes no sister’s better than one who vanishes when you need her most.
*—James Thompson*
