**Sisters, or the Cost of Unloved…**
Mum adored the actress Alice Evans, so she named her daughter after her.
Dad left when Alice was eight. Life grew harder, but at least the daily shouting matches stopped. Alice was old enough to understand why her parents fought—Mum screamed that Dad couldn’t keep his eyes off other women. What Alice never grasped was why those women, young and pretty, would want a man who already had a wife and child.
“Enough! I won’t listen to your baseless accusations. I’d rather be with my mates than you,” Dad would yell before slamming the door.
Alice was relieved when he was gone. No tears, no shouting. Not that Dad had ever been around much—always working late, home after bedtime, weekends spent at the pub.
One night, the fighting was worse than ever. Plates smashed, voices shredded the air.
“You don’t care about us, about your own daughter! You’re abandoning her as much as me!” Mum sobbed.
“I’ll take her then,” Dad shot back.
“And what, your new wife won’t mind? That boy of hers is already running wild—little delinquent!”
Alice pressed her hands over her ears, shaking. Then—silence. She peeled her hands away but stayed frozen until Mum stumbled in, eyes swollen.
“Scared? Don’t be.” She pulled Alice close, and they sat, silent, for a long while.
“Did Dad leave? For that other woman?”
“You heard?” Mum exhaled. “We’ll manage, love. Fancy a cuppa? Biscuits?”
Alice nodded.
“Wait here. Let me tidy up first.”
When Alice peeked out later, Mum was sweeping broken china, quietly crying. She crept back to her room unseen.
That summer, Alice stayed with Nan, Dad’s mum, who sympathised with Mum and scolded her son. Alice missed Mum terribly, but Nan said she needed time—to heal, maybe find Alice a proper father.
“I only want Mum,” Alice insisted.
Mum fetched her in late August, just before school. They clung to each other, grinning. Alice shadowed her every step.
“Go pack your things,” Nan said, shooing her away.
Alice didn’t eavesdrop—until Nan’s voice sharpened.
“When will you tell her?”
“Soon. Thank you for everything,” Mum hedged.
“Come back anytime, bring her.”
“Leave me here? No! I’m going with Mum!” Alice burst in, terrified of being left behind.
Mum took her home, but something had changed. She’d smile absently, lost in thought. It made Alice feel lighter too.
Then one day, Mum came home with a man—Oliver. He handed Alice a box of chocolates.
“Oliver’s moving in,” Mum said.
Some girls at school had stepdads. Some bragged—”Better than my real dad!”—while others scowled, stuck with strict ones. Alice feared Oliver would be harsh, but he bought her sweets, made Mum glow. Still, she kept her distance, wary.
Life carried on—no more shouting, though Mum rarely read to her at bedtime now.
“You’re a big girl. Read to yourself.” The light flicked off, leaving Alice listening to hushed kitchen chatter.
One day, Mum asked, “Would you like a brother or sister?”
“No.”
Six months later, baby sister Esme arrived, screaming, hogging all Mum’s attention. Alice seethed.
“She loves you. Esme’s just little,” Oliver reassured her.
Alice studied the writhing baby. Still a stranger, like Oliver. But who asked children what they wanted?
As Esme grew, Mum tasked Alice with watching her. Unexpectedly, something primal kicked in—Alice fussed over her, relishing the big-sister role. Like playing with a living doll.
Then Oliver died. A blood clot, the doctors said. Mum shut down, hollow with grief.
One afternoon, Alice took Esme to the playground. A boy shoved her off the slide. Esme wailed, blood trickling down her forehead. Alice sprinted home with her.
Mum jolted awake—cleaning the cut, cooing. Alice stammered that the boy had done it, but Esme, through tears, blamed *her*.
Mum lunged, shrieking, driving Alice to her room where she choked on silent sobs.
From then on, Mum barely saw her. Oliver’s love had gone to Esme, and Dad’s betrayal had bled into Alice.
“Esme’s an orphan. Your father’s still alive,” Mum snapped when Alice confronted her.
“Alive? He vanished! Child support doesn’t count!”
Useless. Mum poured every scrap of love into Esme. Alice withdrew, met a bloke—Ryan—and left without a backward glance. Mum hardly seemed to mind.
Ryan worked while studying. They rented a flat. Alice visited occasionally, bringing Esme sweets. Mum would ask rote questions before gushing about Esme. Always the outsider.
They married when Alice was pregnant with twins, mortgaged a flat. Soon, she had no time for visits—Mum didn’t chase her.
Just once, Mum called, fretting: Esme was skipping school, staying out late, her exams looming…
After scraping into teacher training (not med school, Mum’s dream), Esme slacked off.
“Teaching’s fine! She’ll settle,” Alice offered.
“She’s hopeless. If Oliver were alive—”
“If *Dad* hadn’t left, there’d *be* no Esme! You’d have loved *me*!”
Mum called her a selfish brute and hung up.
Then Mum got sick. Cancer. Alice juggled hospital runs with twins and a job. Esme barely showed.
“She’s young, has her own life,” Mum excused.
“She could *wait* for you! What if you needed help?”
Alice suggested moving in, but Mum refused—”What about Esme?”
Esme sneered about the stink of medicine, left Mum wetting herself.
“Take her if you’re so keen on cleaning piss,” she spat.
Alice arranged hospice care but visited daily while Mum asked for Esme.
Discharged to die at home, Alice moved in, abandoning Ryan and the boys.
Mum gave her a folder—”Important.” Alice forgot it.
“Come say goodbye. She *loves* you,” Alice begged Esme.
“I’ll pop by.” She never did.
After the funeral (Esme *did* attend), Alice found the will—flat and everything left to *her*. She reread it, stunned.
Esme stormed in with some bloke, wrinkling her nose.
“Place stinks. Selling it in six months.”
“Try. It’s *mine*.” Alice thrust the will at her.
“Liar! You bullied her! She *loved* me!”
“Where were *you* when she was dying?”
Esme threatened court, lawyers. Then abruptly switched tactics—snivelling about renting, regrets.
“Don’t cave,” Ryan warned. “She didn’t even *cry* at the grave.”
They sold the flat, split the money. Esme whined it wasn’t enough.
“You’ve got a bloke. *Earn* it.”
Alice had thought *they* were the strangers. Now she knew—it was her.
They never spoke again. Esme blocked her number.
When parents divorce, they don’t think of their children’s hearts. Half a flat—payment for a mother’s withheld love.
