“Vicky, love, when are you finally going to make up your mind?” Marie fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth at their little kitchen in Manchester. “The estate agents have rung me three times this week. Serious buyers, cash ready.”
Vicky stirred her tea silently, the spoon clinking against the mug in that infuriating, monotonous way.
“Are you even listening?” Maries voice sharpened. “Or are you going to pretend this has nothing to do with you?”
“It does,” Vicky murmured. “Very much so. But you’re the one deciding, not me.”
Marie rubbed her temples. Life had turned upside down since the divorcethe child support was erratic, she was juggling two jobs, and now Mum had left them the flat. One flat. For both of them.
“Vicky, I need the money. The car loan, Jamies uni fees, tutors… What do you suggest? Sitting in this old place till were pensioners?”
Vicky finally looked up. The exhaustion in her eyes made Marie flinch.
“And where am I supposed to go, Marie? At least youve got work. I was made redundant six months ago. Try finding a decent job at 45.”
“Well, keep looking! Dont just sit there like a limp dishrag!” Marie snapped. “Mum loved us both the same. We sell, split the money, and sort ourselves out.”
Vicky stood and walked to the window. The courtyard where theyd played hopscotch, the bench where Mum used to sit in the evenings…
“Remember,” she said softly, “what Mum told me in hospital? ‘Vicky, youre the homebodyyou need the flat. Maries strong, shell manage.'”
“That was the morphine talking!” Marie cut in. “No will, no special requestsjust half each, legally.”
“I know. Thats why Ive stayed quiet.”
Marie watched her sister and felt fury bubble up. Always the sameVicky quiet, passive, while *she* carried the weight. School bullies, job hunts, the disastrous marriagealways running to big sis.
“Right,” Marie said crisply. “One month. Find a job, get a placefine. If not, we sell. Im done waiting.”
Vicky nodded without turning.
The month flew by. Vicky went to interviews, answered ads, but everywhere wanted “young, dynamic, computer-literate.” Her experience was Soviet-eratwenty years at a defunct engineering firm.
“Well?” Marie demanded the second she walked in.
“Nothing yet,” Vicky sighed. “But theres a library job tomorrow”
“Enough!” Marie slammed her palm on the table. “Were signing the sale papers tomorrow. Buyers have already paid the deposit.”
Vicky went pale.
“Marie, just a little longer. Maybe something will”
“No. Done.” Marie yanked papers from her bag. “Ten a.m. at the solicitors. And dont even think of not showing up.”
That night, Vicky didnt sleep. She touched every familiar thingMums photos, the worn sofa. Tomorrow, itd all be gone.
At dawn, Marie left for work. “Back at nine. Well go together.”
Vicky was nursing cold tea when Mrs. Wilkins from next door knocked.
“Vicky, love,” the old woman said, “whys Marie changing the locks? A locksmith just fitted new ones. Said the owner ordered it.”
Vickys stomach dropped. Her key didnt fit. The shiny new lock gleamed like a betrayal.
Maries phone rang out. Again. Again.
“Mrs. Wilkins,” Vicky whispered, “could I use your phone?”
Marie answered on the third try. “Yes?” Cold. Businesslike.
“Its me. The locks?”
“Oh, Vicky. Yes, *I* changed them. Youre living in *my* flat now. Mine. So *I* decide who comes in.”
“*Ours.* Its *ours!*”
“*Was* ours. Now its mine. The papers are signedI forged your name. Our writings similar, remember? You used to do my homework.”
Vickys legs gave way.
“Youyou cant! Thats fraud! Ill take you to court!”
“Go ahead.” Marie sounded bored. “Prove it. The solicitors my mate. Buyers are friends. You werent even there. Wholl believe I forged my own sisters signature?”
“But *why?* Were family!”
“Thats why I put up with you this long. But I need the money, not a weepy lodger.”
“Where am I supposed to *go?*”
“No idea. Youll figure it out. Youre a grown woman.”
The line died. Vicky stood in Mrs. Wilkins hall, numb.
“Love, whats happened?”
Vicky sobbed out the story. The old woman tutted. “Lord above. Kicking out your own sister… Stay with me tonight. Well sort something.”
Three days passed. No call from Marie. As if Vicky had vanished.
On the fourth day, Mrs. Wilkins bustled in, beaming. “Vicky! Remember Mrs. Thompson from flat 10? Her daughters back from Canadaselling the place, but needs a caretaker till its final. Just cover the bills, keep it tidy. Fancy it?”
Salvation. Vicky hugged her.
“Dont get comfy, though,” Mrs. Wilkins warned. “Find work. Stand on your own feet.”
Mrs. Thompsons flat was bright, airy. The old lady showed her the plants, the cats medicine.
“I dont know you, dear,” she admitted, “but if Mrs. Wilkins vouches, youre good people.”
That evening, Vicky sipped tea in the new kitchen. Rain pattered outside, the cat purred, some soap opera played quietly. For the first time in months, she felt peace.
A knock shattered it.
Marie stood there, drenched, hair wild. “Can I come in?”
Vicky stepped aside.
Marie eyed the flat. “Nicer than ours.”
“Its temporary.”
“I heard. From Mrs. Wilkins.”
Silence. Marie twisted her handbag strap.
“Jamies ill,” she blurted. “Pneumonia. Hospital.”
Vicky looked up. “What do the doctors say?”
“Bad. Expensive drugs, treatments…” Maries voice cracked. “The flat moneys gone. Sold the car. Everything.”
“Why tell *me?*”
“Dunno,” Marie admitted. “Wanted you to know it wasnt for handbags or holidays.”
Vicky stood and filled the kettle. “Tea?”
They drank in silence. Marie kept glancing at her, throat working.
“Vicky,” she finally whispered, “I know what I did was rotten. No excuses. But I was desperate.”
“You couldve *talked* to me.”
“Really? You shut down every time I mentioned selling!”
“Maybe. But forgerys a crime, Marie.”
“I know. I think about it every night. Especially now, with Jamie…”
Vicky watched her sisters hollow cheeks, the shaking hands. The anger seeped away, leaving pity.
“How is he?”
“Better. But not out of danger.”
“Tell him Auntie Vickys praying for him.”
Marie nodded, stood. “I should go. Thanks for the tea.”
At the door, she turned. “Vicky… will you ever forgive me?”
“I dont know. Not yet.”
A week later, Mrs. Wilkins called. “Jamies worse! Maries beside herself. Says the treatment costs”
“What can *I* do? Ive got nothing!”
“Its not about money, love. Shes alone. No husband, friends vanished. Youre all shes got.”
That evening, Vicky went to the hospital. Marie sat on a plastic chair, aged ten years.
“How is he?” Vicky asked.
Marie startled. “Vicky? What?”
“Mrs. Wilkins told me.”
“Bad.” Maries voice broke. “Needs surgery. The money… Ive begged, borrowed…”
Vicky took her hand. “Well fix it. Together.”
Marie wept silently. “Im *trash*, Vicky. And you came. Why?”
“Because youre my sister. My only one.”
Jamie recovered. The surgery workedVickys savings, Maries loan, distant cousins chipped in.
Marie moved into her new flat; Vicky stayed with Mrs. Thompson. She found part-time bookkeeping workenough to live.
They met rarely nowbirthdays, Christmas, the odd visit to Jamie. Things were civil, careful, like neither dared press too hard.
Sometimes, though, by her window at night, Vicky thought how fragile it all wasfamily, trust, love. So easy to break
