“You’ve been in my way since we were kids,” said the sister, refusing to approach me at the funeral.
“You’ve been in my way since we were kids,” said Emily, turning her back to the coffin.
Charlotte stood against the wall of the funeral home, watching her sister stride toward the exit. Black dress, stiletto heelseven at their mothers funeral, Emily had dressed as if heading to a business meeting.
“Emmy, wait,” Charlotte called, but her sister didnt turn.
“Let her go,” whispered Aunt Jean, stepping closer. “What else can you expect? Shes always been like this.”
Charlotte nodded, her eyes fixed on the doorway where Emily had disappeared. Forty-five years of life, and theyd never found common ground.
About thirty people had gatheredneighbours, Mums colleagues from work, distant relatives. They all approached Charlotte, shook her hand, offered kind words about the departed. And where was Emily? Where was the daughter who should have stood beside her, accepting condolences?
“Lottie, stay strong,” murmured Mrs. Thompson from next door. “Your mum was a good woman. May she rest in peace.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered, feeling the lump rise in her throat.
When everyone had left, Charlotte stayed alone with the coffin. Mum lay peaceful, a faint smile on her lips, hands folded over her chest, clutching the little cross shed always carried.
“Mum,” Charlotte whispered, “why did it turn out like this? Why does Emmy hate us?”
No answer came. She sank into a chair by the coffin and closed her eyes. Memories of their childhood surfaced.
Emily was born when Charlotte was twelvea late surprise for parents who hadnt planned more children. Mum called her a blessing, but from the start, Emily was different. Demanding, never satisfied. Mum doted on her like a fragile heirloom; Dad adored his youngest. Charlotte was left to help, to babysit, to put her own life on hold.
“Lottie, watch Emmy for me, I need to pop to the shops,” Mum would ask nearly every day.
“Sweetheart, play with your sister, shes crying,” Dad would plead.
So Charlotte played, read stories, took her for walks. And Emily grew up believing the world owed her everything.
“Mummy, Lottie hurt me!” shed whine over the smallest things.
“Charlotte, how could you? Shes just little!” Mum would scold.
What had Charlotte done? Refused a sweet she didnt have? Asked her to tidy her toys?
“Excuse me.” A man in a sharp suit approached. “Are you the deceaseds next of kin?”
“Her daughter,” Charlotte replied.
“Funeral director. We need to discuss arrangements. Your sister has left?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Then well proceed with you.”
They stepped into the corridor. He pulled out a folder.
“About the wake. Will you be hosting?”
“Of course.”
“At home or a venue?”
Charlotte hesitated. Their house was small, and cooking alone would be exhausting. A café was pricey; her pension was modest.
“Well do it at home,” she decided.
“Right. Then well need to plan the menu, guest count.”
They talked logistics for ten minutes. Charlotte nodded, agreed, but her mind was elsewhere. Why was this all on her shoulders? Why had Emilywho earned three times as muchjust walked away?
She returned home late that evening. The flat greeted her with silence and the lingering scent of Mums perfume.
A note sat on the kitchen table: *Lottie, staying at Sarahs. Back tomorrow. E.*
So Emily *had* come home. But hadnt waited for her.
Charlotte walked into Mums room. The bed was neatly made; on the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water and an empty medicine packet. Mum had slipped away quietly in her sleep, just as shed always wished.
Photos stood on the dresserCharlotte in school uniform, holding flowers on her first day. Emily in a frilly dress at her nursery graduation. A family snapshot by the Christmas tree: Mum, Dad, and their two girls.
Charlotte picked it up. She must have been eighteen there. Emily was tiny, perched in Dads arms, laughing. Mum stood between them, an arm around Charlottes shoulders.
“My little helper,” Mum had said then. “Id never have managed without Lottie.”
Now that helper wasnt needed. Emily had grown up, got an education, landed a good job. Married a wealthy businessman, had two children. Lived in her own house, drove a flash car.
And forgotten the sister whod given up half her childhood for her.
The next morning, a knock sounded. Charlotte hoped it was Emily, but a stranger stood therea woman in her forties with a large bag.
“Hello, youre Charlotte Parker?”
“Yes.”
“Im Anna Williams, a social worker. Your sister asked us to help organise the wake.”
Charlotte blinked.
“I dont understand. What help?”
“Emily said you couldnt afford a proper send-off. We can provide food, help set up.”
“Wait.” Heat flushed Charlottes face. “Who said I couldnt afford it?”
“Your sister. Shes terribly sorry she cant assist personallybusiness troubles.”
Business troubles. From a woman who drove a £50,000 car.
“Thank you, but well manage,” Charlotte said tightly.
“Are you sure? Emily insisted”
“Quite sure. Goodbye.”
She shut the door and leaned against it. So Emily had painted her as a charity case. Told strangers her sister couldnt bury their mother properly.
Her phone rang. Emilys name flashed.
“Hello?”
“Lottie, did the social worker come?”
“She did. Thanks for that, sis.”
“Oh, dont mention it. I just thought… well, your pensions tight, and funerals cost a fortune.”
“Did you think to ask *me* first?”
“Whats to ask? Free help is free help.”
Charlotte inhaled sharply.
“Where are you now?”
“Sarahs. Its easier than being at home.”
*Home*. The flat where theyd grown up. Where Mum had lived her whole life.
“When are you coming? We need to plan the wake.”
“You decide. Youre the organised one.”
“Em, she was your mother too.”
“Dont tell me how to grieve,” Emily snapped. “Everyone does it differently.”
“Your way is running away and dumping it on me?”
“Dont start. Ive a splitting headache. Ill come tomorrow, do what I can.”
She hung up. Charlotte stared at the phone, baffled by the venom. What had she ever done to deserve this?
That evening, Emilys eldest, James, visiteda lanky twenty-five-year-old with her sharp chin and cool grey eyes.
“Aunt Lottie, Im so sorry,” he said, hugging her awkwardly. “Loved Gran to bits.”
“I know, Jamie. She adored you too.”
They sat with tea. James fidgeted with his spoon.
“Auntie… whys Mum so angry with you?”
Charlotte choked on her drink.
“How do you know?”
“Come off it. Shes always on about you. How you hogged the toys, how Gran loved you more.”
“And you believe her?”
He shrugged.
“Dunno. Wasnt there, was I? But shes proper bitter about it.”
Charlotte sipped her tea, studying him. A good lad. Shame his mother poisoned him.
“Jamie, remember visiting as a kid? Gran and I read to you while your mum worked.”
“Course. You made me toast soldiers.”
“Exactly. Now she claims I made her childhood hell.”
James chewed his lip.
“Auntie… was she really unhappy back then?”
Charlotte paused. Unhappy? Emily, who got every toy, every indulgence?
“Jamie,” she said carefully, “memorys a funny thing. Your mum remembers things… differently.”
“How?”
“Well, she recalls me never sharing. I recall giving her everythingeven my favourite doll.”
She fetched an old box from her room, pulling out a worn doll in a faded dress.
“Meet Rosie. Had her since my seventh birthday.”
“What happened?”
“When Em was four, she wanted her. Screamed till I handed her over.”
“And you did?”
“Didnt I just? A week later, Rosies head was ripped off.”
James turned the mended doll in his hands.
“Why keep her?”
“Gran glued her. Said she mattered too much to toss. But she was never the same.”
Charlotte tucked Rosie away gently.
“See, Em always wanted what others had. Then lost interest once she got it.”
“But shes grown now. Changed, surely.”
“I hope so.”
James left late. The flat felt cavernous without him. Mums room, hers, Emilys old nurserynow just storage.
Charlotte flicked on the light
