“Agnes, darling, when will you make up your mind?” Margaret fretted, twisting the edge of the tablecloth as she sat at the kitchen table. “The estate agents have rung me three times this week. The buyers are seriousready with cash in hand.”
Agnes stirred sugar into her tea without looking up. The spoon clinked against the china, sharp and rhythmic, grating on the nerves.
“Are you even listening?” Margarets voice rose. “Or will you pretend, as usual, that this doesnt concern you?”
“It does,” Agnes murmured. “Very much. But youre the one deciding, not me.”
Margaret sighed, rubbing her temples. Since the divorce, life had turned upside down. The alimony came irregularly, she worked two jobs, and now their mother had left them the flat in her willone place for two sisters.
“You must understand, Agnes. I need the money desperatelythe car loan, Timothys university fees, tutors… And what do you suggest? Sitting in this old flat until we retire?”
At last, Agnes lifted her gaze. The weariness in her eyes was so deep that Margaret flinched.
“Where am I supposed to go, Margaret? You at least have work, a wage. Ive been made redundant for six months now. Try finding decent work at forty-five.”
“Then look harder! Dont sit here like a wet blanket!” Margaret snapped. “Mum loved us both the same. The flat is half yours. We sell, split the money, and each of us manages as she can.”
Agnes stood and went to the window. The courtyard she knew since childhood, the little square where theyd once played hopscotch, the old bench where their mother used to sit in the evenings…
“Do you remember,” she said softly, “what Mum said to me in hospital before she passed? She held my hand and whispered, ‘Agnes, youre my homebodythis place means more to you. Margarets strong, shell manage anywhere. But you…'”
“That was the morphine talking!” Margaret cut in. “You know what it does to the mind. There was no willeverythings split by law.”
“I know. Thats why Ive kept quiet,” Agnes replied, exhausted.
Margaret watched her sister and felt something boil inside her. It had always been this wayAgnes quiet, uncomplaining, while every burden fell on Margarets shoulders. At school, when Agnes was bullied, Margaret defended her. When she failed to get into university, Margaret pulled strings to find her work. When her marriage collapsed, it was Margarets door she knocked on, weeping.
“Right,” Margaret said abruptly. “Youve a month. Find a job, rent a placefine. If not, we sell. I wont wait any longer.”
Agnes nodded without turning.
The month passed quickly. Agnes went to interviews, answered adverts, but everywhere wanted the young, the energetic, those skilled with computers. Her experience was from another timetwenty years in a design firm long since shut down.
“Well?” Margaret demanded the moment she stepped inside.
“Nothing yet,” Agnes sighed. “But tomorrow Im going to the librarythey need a…”
“Enough!” Margaret slapped the table. “We sign the sale papers tomorrow. The buyers have already paid the deposit.”
Agnes went pale.
“Margaret, pleasejust a little longer. Something might”
“No. Its decided.” Margaret pulled papers from her bag. “Ten oclock at the solicitors. Dont even think of not showing up. Without your signature, its nothing.”
That night, Agnes did not sleep. She wandered the flat, touching familiar things, studying her mothers photographs. Her whole life had been here, every corner steeped in memory. And tomorrow…
In the morning, Margaret left for work with a parting shot: “Ill be back at nine. Well go together.”
Agnes was at the kitchen table with cold tea when the doorbell rang. Their elderly neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, stood there, frowning.
“Agnes, dear,” she said, “why is Margaret changing the locks? A locksmith came just now. Said the owner ordered it.”
Agness heart lurched. She rushed to the doorher key wouldnt turn. The new lock gleamed, cold and mocking.
Margarets phone rang endlessly. Again and again, Agnes dialled, hearing only the drone of the tone.
“Mrs. Higgins,” she asked, voice trembling, “may I use your phone? Perhaps shell answer the landline.”
“Of course, dear.”
Margaret picked up on the third ring.
“Yes?” Her voice was brisk, icy.
“Margaret, its me. Whats this about the locks?”
“Oh, Agnes. Yes, I changed them. Youre living in *my* flat, understand? *Mine.* And if thats so, *I* decide who comes and goes.”
“*Yours?* Its half mine!”
“*Was* half yours. Now its mine. The papers are signedI forged your signature. Our writings similar, remember? You used to do my schoolwork.”
The ground seemed to drop beneath Agnes.
“Youyou cant do this! Its fraud! Ill take you to court!”
“Do,” Margaret said flatly. “But youll prove nothing. The solicitors a friend. The buyers no stranger either. And you werent thereno witnesses. Whod believe Id forge my own sisters signature?”
“But how could you, Margaret? Were sisters! Same blood!”
“Which is why Ive put up with you all these years. But no more. I need the money, not a millstone round my neck.”
“Where will I go? What am I supposed to do?”
“I dont know. Figure it out. Youre a grown woman.”
The line went dead. Agnes stood in a strangers hallway, disbelief choking her. Mrs. Higgins touched her shoulder gently.
“Dear, whats happened?”
Between sobs, Agnes told her. Mrs. Higgins shook her head, murmuring sympathy.
“Lord above, whats the world come to? Turning your own sister out… Never mind, Agnes, youll stay with me tonight. Well sort something.”
Agnes stayed three days. Margaret never called, never asked after her. As if shed ceased to exist.
On the fourth day, Mrs. Higgins bustled in, beaming.
“Agnes! Remember Mrs. Whitaker from number ten? Her daughters back from Americataking her mother to live there. The flats to be sold, but with the paperwork delayed, someones needed to mind it. You can stay, just cover the bills and keep things tidy. What do you say?”
It was salvation. Agnes hugged her.
“Dont get too comfortable,” Mrs. Higgins warned. “Find work, stand on your own feet. No good getting idle.”
Agnes nodded fervently. She wanted to livedesperately.
Mrs. Whitakers flat was bright, spacious. The old woman showed her where things were, how to tend the plants, what pills the cat needed.
“I dont know you, child,” she admitted, “but Mrs. Higgins vouched for you. And if she gives her word, youre good folk.”
That evening, Agnes sat in the unfamiliar kitchen, tea in hand. A drama played quietly on the telly, the cat purred on the windowsill, rain tapped softly outside. For the first time in months, she felt peace.
A knock at the door startled her. Margaret stood there, dishevelled, her coat dripping.
“May I come in?” she asked uncertainly.
Agnes stepped aside.
Margaret entered, sitting at the table.
“Youve landed nicely,” she said, glancing around. “Better than our old place.”
“Its temporary,” Agnes said quietly.
“I know. Mrs. Higgins told me.”
Silence stretched. Margaret twisted her handbag strap; Agnes studied the tablecloth.
“Timothys ill,” Margaret blurted. “Pneumonia. Hes in hospital.”
Agnes looked up.
“What do the doctors say?”
“Bad. They need expensive medicines, treatments…” Margarets voice shook. “The flat moneys gone. I sold the car, everything.”
“Why tell me this?”
“I dont know,” Margaret admitted. “Perhaps I wanted you to know where the money went. Not on luxuries.”
Agnes stood, filling the kettle.
“Will you have tea?”
Margaret nodded.
They drank in silence. Margaret kept glancing at Agnes, as if wrestling with unspoken words.
“Agnes,” she said finally, “I know what I did was vile. I wont justify it. But I didnt know what else to do. I was cornered.”
“You could have talked. Explained. Id have understood.”
“Would you?” Margaret asked sceptically. “Remember how you reacted every time I mentioned selling? As if I meant to murder you.”
“Perhaps. But forgery is a crime, Margaret.”
“I know
