“Don’t you dare touch my doll!” shrieked Clara, snatching the porcelain beauty with golden curls from her older sister’s grasp. “Mum! Evelyn’s taking my things again!”
“Oh, don’t be such a little miser,” retorted eight-year-old Evelyn, though she let go. “Anyone would think she was a real princess!”
“Girls, what is all this noise first thing?” Margaret emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Evelyn, leave your sister alone. You have plenty of toys of your own.”
“Mine are all old rubbish, and hers are new!” Evelyn protested, outraged. “It’s not fair!”
“Because I’m the youngest,” Clara declared smugly, clutching the doll tightly. “Mum said so herself.”
Evelyn clenched her teeth and stayed silent. Yes, Mum had said it. Gran too. Aunt Lydia. Everyone constantly hinted: “Little Clara needs you to give way,” “Clara’s delicate, she needs looking after,” “Clara’s such a sweet little thing.”
And Evelyn? Evelyn was sturdy. Evelyn had to understand. Always understand, always yield.
“Go get breakfast,” their mother said wearily. “And call your sister.”
At school, Evelyn tried to forget the troubles at home, but Clara’s shadow pursued her even there. Mrs. Davies often inquired, “And how’s little Clara? Not poorly? Starting Year One soon?”
“You help Clara practise for school, don’t you, Evelyn?” she asked once after class.
“Yes, Miss,” lied Evelyn.
In truth, she detested it. Clara fussed, refused to learn her letters, whined she was tired. Mum always chimed in, “Oh, stop picking on her, Evelyn. Can’t you see she’s worn out?”
“Clara, that’s not how you write an ‘A’!” Evelyn snapped, erasing a crooked squiggle. “Look, like this!”
“I don’t want to!” Clara sniffled. “My hand hurts!”
“Rubbish! You’re just lazy!”
“Mum! Evelyn’s being horrid!” Clara instantly wailed.
And Mum, of course, scolded Evelyn. Always scolded Evelyn.
When Clara started school, Evelyn hoped her sister would finally grasp the grind of studying, striving, the sting of Ds and Es. But no. Clara sailed through, all A*s, adored by every teacher.
“Your sister is ever so clever!” her form tutor exclaimed. “A perfect scholar! You could learn a thing or two from her about how to study.”
Evelyn stayed silent, fists balled. What could she say? That Clara wasn’t clever, just lucky? That things landed in her lap, effortless? While Evelyn slogged till midnight for a measly B.
No peace at home either. Clara grew into a real beauty – fair hair, cornflower-blue eyes, flawless skin. Neighbours gasped, “Oh, isn’t she gorgeous? Like a little angel!”
Evelyn? Evelyn was just… ordinary. Not plain, not ugly – entirely unremarkable with mousy brown hair and grey eyes. One of millions.
“Our Clara’ll be an actress,” Mum mused dreamily, brushing her hair. “Or a model. It’d be a crime not to use that face.”
Evelyn pretended not to hear, though each word cut deep. So it *wasn’t* a crime to ignore *her* face? So nothing decent would come of *her*?
“I’m going to be a doctor,” she stated quietly one day.
“A doctor?” Mum sounded surprised. “Well, if you can manage it. Takes a lot of hard work, that.”
*If you can manage it*. Not “I know you’ll do it” or “You’ll be brilliant,” but “if you can manage it.” As if Mum held scant faith.
Meanwhile, Clara blossomed. By secondary school, boys trailed after her. She flirted, batted her lashes, garnered gifts and flowers. Evelyn watched, a bitter envy tightening in her chest.
“Look, earrings Andrew gave me!” Clara chirped, twirling before the mirror. “He says they match my eyes!”
“Lovely,” Evelyn forced out through clenched teeth.
She too dreamt of gifts, compliments. But who’d notice a plain Jane with such a radiant beauty beside her?
“Evie, what’s got you so glum?” Clara inquired, catching her sister’s mood. “Want me to buy you some earrings?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Evelyn clipped.
She didn’t want hand-me-downs or pity. She wanted to be noticed, appreciated, loved for herself. But where to find that?
After A-levels, Clara got into RADA. Mum was over the moon.
“Always knew you’d act!” she beamed. “Such talent, such looks! You’ll be famous!”
Evelyn, meanwhile, wrestled with anatomy texts at medical school. Tough, brutally tough. Anatomy, physiology, chemistry – endless rote learning, constant pressure. But she persevered. She’d be a doctor. Not a star like Clara, but useful.
“How’s uni?” Mum would ask, though her eyes glazed over, far more interested in Clara’s latest audition.
“Alright,” Evelyn replied tersely.
“Clara rang! Got the lead in their end-of-year play! Can you imagine? First year – and the lead!”
Yes, Evelyn could imagine. Clara always landed top spot.
Years passed. Clara became an actress, albeit middling. Plays in small theatres, the odd TV soap. Mum still crowed: daughter on the stage! Evelyn became a GP, worked at an NHS practice, treated people, helped them. Mum seemed… vaguely approving.
“Clara’s in another soap,” she’d tell friends. “Going to be on telly! Evelyn… well, Evelyn works at the clinic.”
Evelyn listened silently. What to say? That her work mattered? That she saved lives, didn’t just entertain? Who cared?
Clara married first, naturally. To a handsome actor. A lavish do, heaps of guests, photographers. Mum radiated joy, bragging about her wonderful son-in-law, what a lovely couple.
“And you, Evie? Planning to tie the knot?” aunts inquired. “Pushing thirty, still single.”
Evelyn shrugged. Her love life truly stalled. No time? Wrong men? Or had she forgotten she *was* attractive, eclipsed so long?
Clara had a baby girl a year later. Fair, pretty like her. Mum went mad with joy.
“My granddaughter! My darling girl!” she wept, clutching the infant. “Such a little beauty! Spitting image of her mum!”
Evelyn watched her niece. Would this child too forever linger in the little princess’s shadow?
But life plays tricks. Clara’s marriage lasted barely three years. Her handsome husband proved flighty. Ran off with a student, leaving Clara a single mother.
“Can’t understand it,” Mum wept. “Such a beautiful couple! Both so talented!”
Clara sobbed, called herself a fool, a failure. She quit theatre – a toddler demanded attention, an actor’s wage wouldn’t nearly cover costs.
“What now?” she despaired. “Where do I work? Theatre’s all I know!”
Evelyn listened, thinking: there it is. Beauty, talent, success – soap bubbles. What’s left inside when the shine fades?
“Do a course,” she advised. “Accountancy. Management. Useful skills, decent pay.”
“A *course*?” Clara recoiled. “I’m an *actress*!”
“*Were*,” Evelyn stated bluntly. “Now you’re an unemployed single mother with bills to pay.”
Clara bristled
And as the birthday decorations fluttered above their niece’s delighted face, squealing for a photograph, Vicky hesitantly reached out and gently touched Stella’s hand resting beside her own on the tablecloth, and the tension dissolved like sugar in tea, the silent agreement settling warm and deep; when they all smiled, the camera flashed.
The Sister I Resented Since Childhood
