**Friday, 19th May**
Honestly, I despised my sister since we were girls. “Don’t you dare touch my doll!” Emily shrieked, snatching the porcelain figure with golden ringlets from my grasp. “Mum! Beatrice has got my toys again!”
“Honestly, don’t be such a greedy little thing!” I snapped back at eight years old, though I dropped the doll. “Who does she think she is, a princess?”
“Girls, what’s all this shouting so early?” Mum sighed, coming from the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Beatrice, leave your sister be. You’ve plenty of your own playthings.”
“Mine are all rubbish hand-me-downs, she gets lovely new ones!” I retorted hotly. “It isn’t fair!”
“Because I’m the youngest,” Emily declared smugly, hugging the doll close. “Mum said so.”
I clenched my jaw, silent. She was right, Mum did say that. Gran too, and Aunt Lydia. Everyone constantly droned on: “Little Emily needs you to give way,” “Emily’s delicate, she needs looking after,” “Emily’s such a sweet little girl.”
What about me? I was big and strong. I was supposed to understand. Always understand, always give in.
“Come for breakfast,” Mum said wearily. “And call your sister.”
At school, I tried forgetting the troubles at home, yet Emily’s shadow pursued me. Miss Davies often asked after ‘little Emily’, was she ill, when would she start primary?
“Beatrice, dear, are you helping your sister prepare for school?” she inquired one day after lessons.
“Yes, miss,” I lied.
Truthfully, I detested those study sessions. Emily was a misery, refusing to learn letters, whining she was tired. Mum always chided, “Must you bully her? Can’t you see she’s exhausted?”
“Emily, that’s not how you write an ‘A’!” I said crossly, scrubbing out her awful squiggle. “Look, this is how!”
“Don’t want to!” she sniffled. “My hand hurts!”
“It does not! You’re just lazy!”
“Mum! Beatrice called me names!” Emily bellowed immediately.
And Mum, predictably, told *me* off. Always told *me* off.
When Emily started school, I hoped she’d grasp how hard studying was – the slog, the effort required, getting poor marks. Not a bit of it. Emily sailed through, got top marks effortlessly, and her teachers adored her.
“Your sister is so naturally clever!” my form tutor marvelled. “A proper little scholar! You could learn a thing or two from her about applying yourself.”
I stood silent, fists clenched. What could I say? That Emily wasn’t clever, just lucky? That things fell into her lap without trying? While I had to cram all night just for a decent pass? Home was no sanctuary either. Emily grew into a real beauty – blonde, blue-eyed, fair skin. Neighbours cooed: “Oh, what a little angel! A proper dolly!”
And me? I was ordinary. Not beautiful, not ugly – just a plain girl with brown hair and grey eyes. One of millions.
“Our Emily could be an actress,” Mum would muse dreamily, brushing her hair. “Or a model. With looks like that, it’d be a sin not to.”
I pretended not to hear, stung to the core. So… it *wasn’t* a sin not to use *my* looks? I wouldn’t amount to much?
“I want to be a doctor,” I said quietly once.
“A doctor?” Mum sounded surprised. “Well, if you manage it. You’ll need excellent A-levels.”
“If you manage it.” Not “I know you’ll do it” or “You can be one”, but “if”. As if she barely believed in me at all.
Meanwhile, Emily blossomed. By senior school, boys buzzed around her. She flirted, batted her lashes, collected gifts and flowers. I watched, heartsore and envious.
“Look what William gave me!” she chirped, twirling before the mirror. “He says they match my eyes!”
“Lovely,” I managed through gritted teeth.
I dreamt of gifts and compliments too. But who notices a plain Jane when such a dazzling beauty stands beside her?
“Bea, why so down in the dumps?” Emily asked, noticing my gloom. “Want me to buy you some earrings?”
“No thanks,” I cut her off sharply.
I didn’t want hand-outs. Pity. I wanted *someone* to see *me*, appreciate *me*, love *me*. But where to find that person?
After school, Emily got into drama school. Mum was over the moon.
“I always knew you’d be an actress!” she beamed. “Such talent! Such beauty! You’ll be famous!”
I, meanwhile, was grinding through medical school. Hard work. Anatomy, physiology, chemistry – demanding relentless revision and effort. But I persevered. I’d be a doctor. Not a bright star like my sister, but useful.
“How’s university?” Mum asked, though her eyes shone only for Emily’s drama tales.
“Fine,” I clipped.
“Emily called yesterday – she’s landed the lead in her year’s production! Imagine! First year, and a lead role!”
Yes, I imagined. Emily was always first.
Years passed. Emily became an actress, though not a household name. Worked in rep theatre, occasional TV roles. Mum still boasted: ‘My daughter the actress!’ I became a GP, working at the local surgery, treating people, helping them. Mum seemed less impressed.
“Emily’s in a new drama series,” she told friends. “Going to be on telly. And Beatrice… well, Beatrice works at the hospital.”
I heard it, stayed quiet. What could I say? That my work mattered just as much? That I saved lives, not just entertained? Who cared?
Emily married first, naturally. To a handsome actor from her theatre. A big wedding, heaps of guests, photographers. Mum glowed, telling everyone about her marvellous son-in-law, what a stunning couple they made.
“Beatrice, love, when will you wed?” aunts inquired. “Pushing thirty, still on your own.”
I shrugged. My love life genuinely floundered. No time? Wrong men? Or perhaps, eclipsed by my sister’s brightness, I’d lost belief in my own worth.
Then Emily had a baby, a pretty little girl. Mum was beside herself.
“My granddaughter! My darling!” she sobbed, refusing to put the child down. “Growing into such a beauty! The image of her Mummy!” I watched my niece, wondering bleakly: would history repeat? Would any daughters of mine live perpetually in this little princess’s shadow?
But life throws curveballs. Emily’s marriage barely lasted three years. The handsome actor proved feckless, running off with a student, leaving Emily alone with the baby.
“I can’t fathom it,” Mum wept. “Such a lovely couple! Both so gifted!”
Emily wailed, called herself a fool, a failure. She quit theatre – a baby demanded attention, an actor’s wage wouldn’t cover bills.
“What on earth will I do?” she despaired. “Where can I work? All I know is acting!”
I listened, thinking: here was life’s true face. Beauty, talent, success – mere soap bubbles. What remained underneath? What substance lay beyond the shine?
“Do a course,” I suggested. “Train as an accountant or office manager. Solid profession, decent wage.”
“A *course*?” Emily looked horrified. “I’m an actress!”
“*Were* an actress,” I said bluntly. “Now you’re a single mum, jobless and skint.”
Emily sulked, but options were few. She took the course, qualified, became a bookkeeper for a small firm. The work proved dull, grey, nothing like her dreams. But it paid the bills regularly.
Meanwhile, I built my career. Became senior partner at
At last, despite every scraped knee of our shared history, building some small, hopeful bridge across that awful gap felt possible, and we simply sat there, holding our niece while the scent of birthday cake hung warm in the quiet air, smiling at each other genuinely for the first time in decades. Then softly, watching the little girl blow out her candles between us, I understood that the sharpest edges of my resentment had finally blunted, leaving only the bittersweet ache of time lost and the quiet resolve to mend what little of our sisterhood we could salvage before it was truly too late; forgiveness wouldn’t come suddenly, but perhaps, like the slow knitting of bone after a deep fracture, it could eventually bear weight. Nestled together on that sofa, the three of us bathed in the flickering candlelight of celebration, the future felt less like a battleground and more like territory ripe for reclamation, acre by stubborn, patient acre.
