**The Sisters**
Patricia rose at dawn, prepared breakfast, packed food for her husband, and only then went to wake him.
“Patty, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the bulky bag.
“Two days is a long time to go hungry. No time to cook there—just heat it up. Don’t be fussy. There’s warm clothes in there too. Nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Patricia waved him off.
He ate heartily, dressed, and took the bag.
“I’m off. Go back to sleep,” he said, stepping out of the flat.
Patricia closed the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and peered out the window. She knew halfway across the yard, Alex would turn and wave. He did, stopping and raising his hand toward the house. She waved back. A small warmth flickered in her chest—*like newlyweds*.
Ever since retiring, she’d made a habit of seeing him off, whether to work or their cottage. They’d been married twenty-six years. Not so long, considering their age. Both had histories before this.
Patricia hated being alone. She’d have gone with him to the cottage, but she’d promised their daughter to babysit today. She sighed. No sleep left in her. Too early to clean—vacuuming at 6 AM in a terraced house with paper-thin walls was a sin against neighbours who treasured weekend lie-ins.
With nothing else to do, she lay atop the bed in her dressing gown, mind wandering until she drifted off.
A dream came. Her grandmother’s old sheepdog, Rusty, shaggy and huge, bounded toward her, tail wagging. “Rusty! Where’ve you been?” Patricia reached to pet him—but the dog bared its teeth. She jerked back, bewildered—
She startled awake. Empty room. No Rusty—he’d died of old age when she was fourteen. The clock showed she’d only slept ten minutes. She shut her eyes again. *The dead dream of storms, dogs of kin*, she thought—just as the doorbell rang. Who on earth at this hour?
Patricia swung her legs off the bed, slipped on slippers, and trudged to the hall. The bell rang again, impatient.
“Coming, coming,” she muttered, opening the door.
The sight of her visitor nearly made her slam it shut. First instincts are truest, they say. Later, she’d wish she had. On the doorstep stood her younger sister. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
“Hello, sis,” said Irene, stressing the word, lips curling.
Her front teeth jutted slightly, gums pale pink when she smiled. *So much for dreams meaning nothing*, Patricia thought, recalling Rusty’s snarl. The thought soured her. A visit after years apart boded ill.
They shared a mother, different fathers, and a decade’s gap. Patricia’s dad died in a crash; three years later, Mum remarried and had Irene. The sisters were opposites—Patricia plump and petite, soft-featured and softer-tempered; Irene tall and angular, her face elongated, teeth prominent.
“Well? Keeping me on the doorstep?” Irene’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Patricia still had time to shut the door. But blood was blood, uninvited or not.
“Come in.” She stepped aside.
Irene kicked off her high heels, fluffed her hair in the hall mirror, then turned. “Surprised? I’m here.” She reached for Alex’s slippers, but Patricia pulled out guest ones—too small, but the only spares.
“Show me how you live,” Irene said, sweeping into the living room, eyes darting to every detail. “Quite the palace! Imported furniture, posh decor…” She glanced back, and for a flash, Patricia saw envy and malice in her gaze. Then the smile returned, teeth on display. Rusty’s snarl flashed in Patricia’s mind again.
“Landed well, didn’t you? Where’s the hubby?”
“At the cottage.”
“A cottage too? Proper bourgeoisie,” Irene drawled, tone dripping with *we’ll see about that*.
“Why are you here?” Patricia’s composure frayed.
“Missed you. We’ve only got each other now.” Irene studied a photo of Patricia’s daughter and grandson. “Who’s this? Yours?”
Patricia stayed silent.
“I’ve been alone. Mike and I split fast. Two more husbands after—no different than the first. Hardly worth the swap.”
“Did you steal those too?” Patricia snapped.
“Ooh, bitter. How old’s your daughter?” Irene ignored the jab.
“Twenty-eight.”
“So you married two years later. Rushed the kid to lock him down?” Irene threw her head back, laughing at her own joke.
“She’s my husband’s daughter,” Patricia said, then hated herself for explaining.
“Fair’s fair. Tea?” Irene chirped, as if they’d been chatting weather.
As Irene marvelled at the kitchen—”Such taste! Such homemaking!”—Patricia reheated the kettle.
“How long are you staying?”
“Already shooing me?” Irene grinned. The back-and-forth was a tennis match Patricia was losing. She stayed silent, willing her sister to say she’d leave after tea.
“Just till tomorrow? Hate hotels. Hubby’s away anyway.” Irene dashed the hope.
“Where next?”
“The seaside. Wanted sun one last time. Thought I’d drop by.” She paused. “Honestly, after all these years—still holding a grudge? I was stupid. Mike and I crashed fast. He’s married now. Two boys. Happy. And you’re not exactly suffering. Worked out for the best, yeah?”
Patricia missed the word *last*, but old hurts resurfaced.
“Forgive you? You ruined my life.”
“Please. You’re married, comfortable. And for the record, your Mike was middling in bed.”
The conversation looped—same wounds, same useless circling. Patricia set out tea, biscuits, a box of chocolates.
“Not joining? I don’t bite.” Irene nodded at the lone cup.
“Already ate with my husband.”
“Ah.”
After tea, Irene stood. “Ta. Can I leave my bags? Fancy a walk. You’ll be in later?”
“Promised my daughter I’d babysit.”
Irene’s brow arched. “Give me keys, then. Don’t worry—not after your junk.”
Patricia hesitated but handed them over. Once Irene left, she checked stashed cash, documents, jewellery. Trust didn’t come easy with Irene. But blood was blood.
—
Patricia had been prettier but quieter. Boys flocked to Irene like moths.
She and Mike had been sweethearts since school. When he returned from service, he proposed. Wedding prep was underway when Patricia found him in bed with Irene. Humiliated, she fled to another town. Irene shrugged it off—married Mike, no shame.
Patricia rebuilt slowly—a job, a tiny flat. Mum wrote, begging reconciliation. She couldn’t. Then, in a shop, she met Alex. His little girl was crying for a doll he couldn’t yet afford. Patricia bought it. The girl clung to her. His wife had died six months prior.
When he proposed, Patricia said yes, knowing love wasn’t instant. The girl called her Mum. Over time, they grew into love. Only—no child of their own. A miscarriage, then no more. But she loved Alice like her own.
A call from Alice broke her reverie. “Coming,” Patricia said, gathering her things. On the way, she called Alex—*Irene’s here*.
Returning that evening, every light in the flat blazed. Her stomach knotted. Alex back early?
The TV blared from the stairwell. Irene lounged with wine, an empty bottle and chocolate box at her feet. Cigarette haze lingered. Patricia flung windows open.
“Smoke outside!” She turned the volume down. “Celebrating?”
“Join me. Oh, right—Saint Patricia doesn’t drink.” Irene drained her glass, slurring.
“When do you leave tomorrow?”
“Changed my mind. Two more days. Don’t fret—not after your man.” Her grin was glassy. “Or will you toss me out?”
Arguing was pointless. Patricia bit her tongue. Alex would handle it tomorrow.
She barely slept, resolving to send Irene to a hotel. By morning, Irene was gone—perhaps sensing the shift.
Alex returned early. Patricia unloaded everything. When Irene reappeared, Patricia broached the hotel idea.
“You owe me,” Irene cut in.
“*I* owe *you*?”
“Gran’s house. My dad rebuilt it. Half is mine.”
“We sold it after Mum died. Alex has the cottage.”
“Did Mum will it to you?”
“No. She died suddenly. We didn’t know where you were.”
“Then I’ll sue. I’m heir too.”
“You want half the sale money,” Alex deduced.
“FinallyPatricia handed her the envelope, watched her leave, and when the door clicked shut, she exhaled—knowing some ghosts never stay buried, but at least this one was gone for good.
