“Charlotte, love, when will you finally make up your mind?” Marion nervously fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth as they sat in the kitchen. “The estate agents have called me three times this week. Serious buyers, cash in hand.”
Charlotte silently stirred sugar into her tea without looking up. The teaspoon clinked monotonously against the glass, grating on Marions nerves.
“Are you even listening?” Marion raised her voice. “Or are you pretending this has nothing to do with you?”
“It does,” Charlotte murmured. “Very much so. But the decision is yours, not mine.”
Marion sighed, rubbing her temples. Since the divorce, life had turned upside down. Child support came irregularly, she worked two jobs, and now their mother had left them the flatone flat between two sisters.
“You see, Charlie, I need the money urgently. The car loan, Jamie starting university, tutors And what do you suggest? Sitting in this old flat until retirement?”
Charlotte finally lifted her gaze. The exhaustion in her eyes was so deep that Marion flinched.
“And where am I supposed to go, Marion? At least you have a job, a salary. I was made redundant six months ago. Try finding decent work at forty-five.”
“Well, look for it! Dont sit around like a wet blanket!” Marion snapped. “Mum loved us equallythe flat is half yours, half mine. We sell, split the money, and each of us makes her own way.”
Charlotte stood and walked to the window. The courtyard shed known since childhood, the square where theyd played hopscotch, the old bench where their mother used to sit in the evenings
“Remember,” she said softly, “when Mum was in the hospital before she died? She held my hand and said, ‘Charlotte, youre my homebirdyou need the flat more. Marions strong, shell land on her feet anywhere, but you'”
“That was the morphine talking!” Marion cut in sharply. “No will was lefteverythings split by law.”
“I know. Thats why Im not arguing.”
Marion watched her sister and felt anger bubbling inside. It had always been this wayCharlotte quiet, uncomplaining, while Marion carried the burdens. School bullies? Marion defended her. Failed exams? Marion pulled strings for a job. A bad marriage? Back to crying on Marions shoulder.
“Fine,” Marion said brusquely. “Youve got a month. Find a job, rent a placegood. If not, we sell. I cant wait any longer.”
Charlotte nodded without turning around.
The month flew by. Charlotte went to interviews, answered ads, but everywhere wanted youth, energy, computer skillsnot twenty years in a defunct council office.
“Well?” Marion demanded as soon as she stepped through the door.
“Nothing yet,” Charlotte sighed. “But theres an opening at the library”
“Thats it.” Marion slammed her hand on the table. “Were signing the sale papers tomorrow. The buyers have already paid the deposit.”
Charlotte paled.
“Marion, just a little longer. Maybe something will”
“No. Its decided.” Marion pulled documents from her bag. “We meet the solicitor at ten. And dont even think of not showing upyour signature is required.”
That night, Charlotte didnt sleep. She wandered the flat, touching familiar things, staring at photos of their mother. Her whole life had passed hereevery corner held memories. And tomorrow
In the morning, Marion left for work, tossing over her shoulder, “Ill be back at ninewell go together.”
Charlotte sat at the kitchen table with cold tea when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Wilkins from next door stood there.
“Charlotte, love,” the elderly woman said, “why is Marion changing the locks? A locksmith camenew ones fitted. Said the owner requested it.”
Charlottes heart lurched. She rushed to the doorher key didnt work. The new lock gleamed, mocking her.
Marions phone went unanswered. Charlotte dialled again and again, hearing only endless ringing.
“Mrs. Wilkins,” she whispered, trembling, “may I use your phone? Perhaps the landline will get through.”
“Of course, dear.”
Marion picked up on the third ring.
“Yes?” Her voice was brisk, cold.
“Marion, its me. Whats this about the locks?”
“Oh, Charlotte. Yes, I changed them. Youre living in *my* flat nowunderstand? Mine. 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 handwritings similar, remember? You used to do my schoolwork.”
The ground seemed to drop beneath Charlotte.
“Youyou cant! This is fraud! Ill take you to court!”
“Do that,” Marion said indifferently. “But prove it. The solicitors a friend. The buyers connected. You werent thereno witnesses. Whod believe Id forge my own sisters signature?”
“How could you? Were *sisters*!”
“Which is why I put up with you this long. But enough. I need money, not a millstone.”
“Where will I *live*?”
“Not my problem. Youll manageyoure an adult.”
The line went dead. Charlotte stood in a strangers hallway, numb. Mrs. Wilkins touched her shoulder gently.
“Dear, whats happened?”
Between sobs, Charlotte explained. Mrs. Wilkins shook her head, tutting.
“Lord, what has the world come to? Throwing out your own sister Never mind, dear, stay with me tonight. Well sort something.”
Charlotte stayed three nights. Marion never called, never asked after her. As if shed vanished.
On the fourth day, Mrs. Wilkins returned, beaming.
“Charlotte! Remember Mrs. Thompson from number ten? Her daughters back from Americataking her to live there. The flats up for sale, but they need someone to mind it until the papers are through. Just pay the utilities and keep things tidy. What do you say?”
It was salvation. Charlotte hugged Mrs. Wilkins tightly.
“Dont get too comfortable though,” the older woman warned. “Find workstand on your own feet.”
Charlotte nodded fervently. She wanted to livedesperately.
Mrs. Thompsons flat was spacious, sunlit. The elderly woman showed her where everything washow to water the plants, medicate the cat.
“I dont know you, dear,” she admitted, “but if Mrs. Wilkins vouches for you, thats good enough for me.”
That evening, Charlotte sat in the unfamiliar kitchen, sipping tea. A soap opera played quietly, the cat purred on the windowsill, rain tapped softly outside. For the first time in months, she felt peace.
The doorbell startled her. Marion stood there, dishevelled, her coat dripping.
“Can I come in?”
Charlotte stepped aside silently.
Marion entered the kitchen, sitting heavily.
“Youve landed well,” she said, glancing around. “Nicer than our old place.”
“Its temporary.”
“I know. Mrs. Wilkins told me.”
They sat in silence. Marion twisted her handbag strap; Charlotte studied the tablecloth.
“Jamies ill,” Marion blurted. “Pneumonia. Hospitalised.”
Charlotte looked up.
“What do the doctors say?”
“Bad case. Expensive medication, treatments” Marions voice shook. “The flat moneys gone. Sold the car, everything.”
“Why tell *me* this?”
“I dont know,” Marion admitted. “Maybe I wanted you to know where the money went. Not on luxuries.”
Charlotte stood, filling the kettle.
“Tea?”
Marion nodded.
They drank in silence. Marion kept glancing at her sister, as if wrestling with unspoken words.
“Charlie,” she finally said, “I know what I did was rotten. I wont justify it. But I was desperate.”
“You couldve *talked* to me. Explained. Id have understood.”
“Would you?” Marion asked doubtfully. “Remember how you reacted every time I mentioned selling? Like I was murdering you.”
“Maybe. But forgery is *fraud*, Marion.”
“I know. I think about it every night. Especially now, with Jamie” She trailed off, turning away.
Charlotte watched herthe anger ebbing, leaving only hollow pity.
“How is he?”
“Stable. But recoverys far off.”
“Tell him Auntie Charlies praying for him.”
Marion stood.
“I should go. Thanks for the tea.”
At the door, she hesitated.
“Charlie will you ever forgive me?”
“I dont know,” Charlotte answered honestly. “Not yet.”
Marion left. Charlotte sat for hours, listening to the clock tick, the cats purrs. Life went on, regardless.
A week later, Mrs. Wilkins called
