“You’ve been in my way since we were kids,” said my sister, turning her back on me at the funeral.
Charlotte stood by the far wall of the memorial hall, watching as her sister strode toward the exit. The black dress, the heelseven at their mother’s funeral, Olivia had managed to dress as if heading to a business meeting.
“Liv, wait,” Charlotte called, but her sister didnt turn.
“Let her go,” whispered Aunt Margaret, stepping closer. “Shes always been like this.”
Charlotte nodded, eyes fixed on the door where Olivia had disappeared. Forty-five years of life, and theyd never found common ground.
The hall was half-fullneighbors, Mums old colleagues, distant relatives. One by one, they approached Charlotte, shook her hand, murmured kind words about the departed. But where was Olivia? Where was the daughter who should have stood beside her, accepting condolences?
“Charlie, love, stay strong,” whispered Mrs. Thompson from next door. “Your mum was a good woman. May she rest in peace.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat.
When the last guest left, Charlotte remained alone with the coffin. Her mother lay peaceful, a faint smile on her lips, hands folded over a small cross shed always carried.
“Mum,” Charlotte whispered, “why did it turn out like this? Why does Liv hate us?”
No answer came. She sank into a chair, eyes closed, childhood memories flickering behind her lids.
Olivia had arrived when Charlotte was twelvean unexpected late blessing, Mum called her. But from the start, Olivia was different. Demanding, difficult, never satisfied. Mum fussed over her like porcelain, Dad adored his youngest, and Charlottewell, Charlotte was expected to help.
“Charlie, watch Liv for me, I need to pop to the shops.”
“Charlie, play with your sister, shes crying.”
So Charlotte played, read stories, took her on walks. And Olivia grew up believing the world owed her everything.
“Mum, Charlies being mean!” shed whine over nothingbecause Charlotte wouldnt share sweets she didnt have, or wouldnt buy her toys with her pocket money, or dared to ask her to tidy her blocks.
“Charlotte, shame on you! Shes just little!” Mum would scold.
A man in a dark suit approached. “Youre the deceaseds next of kin?”
“Her daughter.”
“Funeral director. We need to discuss arrangements. The other daughter left?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Then well work with you.”
They stepped into the corridor. He pulled out a folder. “Regarding the wakewill you be hosting?”
“Of course.”
“At home or a venue?”
Charlotte hesitated. The flat was too small, cooking alone too much. A café would cost too much on her pension.
“At home,” she decided.
Ten minutes later, logistics settled, her mind reeled. Why was this all on her? Why had Oliviawho earned three times her salaryjust walked away?
Home that night, the flat was silent, still faintly scented with Mums perfume. A note on the kitchen table: *”Staying at Emilys. Back tomorrow. Liv”*
So shed been here. Couldnt even wait.
Charlotte drifted into Mums roomthe neatly made bed, the half-empty glass of water, the empty pill packet. Gone quietly in her sleep, just as shed wanted.
On the dresser, photos: Charlotte in school uniform, first day of term. Olivia in a frilly dress at nursery graduation. A family shot by the Christmas treeMum, Dad, and both girls.
Charlotte picked it up. Shed been eighteen there, Olivia just a toddler in Dads arms, laughing. Mum stood between them, an arm around Charlotte.
“My little helper,” Mum had said. “Id never have managed Liv without you.”
But now the helper wasnt needed. Olivia had grown up, graduated, landed a good job. Married a wealthy businessman, had two children. Lived in a house in Surrey, drove a luxury car.
And forgot the sister whod given up half her childhood for her.
The next morning, a knock. Not Oliviaa stranger, a woman in her forties with a large bag.
“Charlotte Edwards?”
“Yes.”
“Anna Wallace, social services. Your sister requested assistance with the wake.”
Charlotte blinked. “What assistance?”
“Olivia mentioned financial strain. We can provide groceries, help with catering.”
Charlottes face burned. “Excuse me? Who said I couldnt afford it?”
“Your sister. Shes concernedher business is struggling just now.”
Struggling. The woman who drove a £50,000 car.
“Thank you, but well manage.”
“Are you sure? Olivia insisted”
“Quite sure. Goodbye.”
Door closed, Charlotte leaned against it. So now Olivia had painted her as a charity case.
Her phone rang. Olivias name flashed.
“Hello.”
“Did the social worker come?”
“She did. How thoughtful of you.”
“Just trying to help. Your pension doesnt stretch far, and funerals are expensive.”
“Did you consider *asking* me first?”
“Whats to ask? Helps help.”
Charlotte exhaled. “Where are you now?”
“Emilys. Its easier than being here.”
*Here.* The flat theyd grown up in. Where Mum had lived her whole life.
“When are you coming? We need to plan the wake.”
“You decide. Youre the practical one.”
“Liv, she was your mother too.”
“Dont lecture me on grief,” Olivia snapped. “Everyone handles it differently.”
“Your way is running away?”
“Not now, Charlie. Ill come tomorrow, do what I can.”
The line went dead.
That evening, Olivias eldest, James, visitedtall, lean, twenty-five, his mothers grey eyes and stubborn chin.
“Aunt Charlie, Im so sorry,” he mumbled, hugging her awkwardly. “Loved Gran to bits.”
“I know, love. She adored you.”
Over tea, he fidgeted. “Aunt Charlie why does Mum hate you?”
Charlotte choked on her drink. “What?”
“Shes always on about you. How you hogged toys, how Gran loved you more.”
“Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Wasnt there. But shes proper bitter about it.”
Charlotte studied hima good lad. Shame his mother poisoned him against her.
“Remember visiting as a kid? Me and Gran reading to you while your mum worked?”
“Yeah. She was always busy.”
“And now she says I made her childhood hell.”
James hesitated. “Was she unhappy growing up?”
Unhappy? Olivia, who got every toy, every indulgence?
“Memorys funny, Jamie,” Charlotte said carefully. “People remember things differently.”
She fetched an old shoebox from her room. Inside, a battered doll in a faded dress.
“This was my favourite. Emily. Got her for my seventh birthday.”
“What happened?”
“When Liv was four, she wanted her. Screamed till I gave in.”
“And you did?”
“I did. A week later, she ripped Emilys head off.”
James turned the doll over. “Whyd you keep her?”
“Gran glued her back. Said she was still special. But I never played with her again.”
Charlotte tucked Emily away. “Your mum always wanted what others had. Then lost interest.”
“But shes grown up now. Changed, yeah?”
“One can hope.”
Later, alone in the flat, Charlotte stood in Olivias old roomnow a storage space. The cot where shed slept. The nights Charlotte had soothed her when Mum was ill. The homework shed helped with.
And for what? Resentment. Anger.
“Why do you hate me?” she whispered to the empty room.
Olivia arrived the next morning, knocking like a stranger though she had keys.
“Tea?” Charlotte offered.
They sat at the kitchen table. Olivia looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes.
“About the wake,” she said, avoiding Charlottes gaze. “I cant help cook. Big meeting tomorrow.”
“On the day of Mums wake?”
“Work doesnt stop.”
Charlotte set her cup down. “Liv do you even miss her?”
Olivias head jerked up. “How dare you? Of course I do. I just dont perform grief for an audience.”
“Then why did you leave the funeral?”
“Felt faint. It was stuffy.”
“And the social worker? Think I cant handle things?”
Olivia shrugged. “Wanted to help. Moneys tight for you.”
“Im *fine*. You humiliated me.”
“Hardly. Normal offer.”
Charlotte walked to the window. Kids played outside, laughing. Life went on.
“Liv, tell me honestly. What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing much,” Olivia murmured. “You were just
