Valerie stood by the window, watching her neighbour Margaret take out the rubbish. A neat, well-kept woman in her sixties, dressed in clean clothes with perfectly styled hair—even the mundane task looked like an occasion. Valerie instinctively adjusted her faded dressing gown and stepped away.
The phone rang in the kitchen. She walked over slowly, already knowing who was calling. Every Tuesday, it was her sister Lynne.
“Val, hi, it’s me,” came the familiar voice. “How are things?”
“Fine,” Valerie answered shortly, sitting on the stool by the phone.
“Listen, I was thinking… Remember how Mum always said she’d leave the flat to both of us equally? You know, when she’s gone…”
Valerie tensed. Every conversation with Lynne circled back to this.
“Yes. So?”
“Nothing really. Just, David thinks it’s better to sort the paperwork beforehand. Avoid complications later.”
David—Lynne’s husband, a successful solicitor. Always advising her on financial matters.
“Mum’s still alive, thank goodness,” Valerie replied flatly. “Bit soon for that.”
“Of course, of course. But she’s not getting any younger, Val. Eighty-four now. And her health isn’t great.”
Valerie winced. Lynne had a way of saying the right thing in the wrong tone.
“She’s all right. I look after her every day.”
“And you’re brilliant at it!” Lynne quickly added. “I’m not complaining! It’s just—I can’t visit daily, what with work, the grandkids…”
Valerie closed her eyes. Always the same. Lynne justified her absence with her busy, accomplished life, then circled back to inheritance.
“Lynne, Mum needs medication. Expensive ones. I can’t afford it.”
“Of course I’ll help! How much?”
“Three hundred quid.”
A pause.
“Three hundred?” Lynne echoed. “That’s a lot for pills.”
“It’s not just pills. Private tests, a specialist visit.”
“Right. Fine, I’ll transfer it. Just keep the receipts, yeah? So I know where the money’s going.”
Valerie gripped the phone tighter.
“Lynne, I’m not a thief. Don’t treat me like one.”
“God, no! It’s not about that. Just for records. David says it’s smart to document parents’ expenses.”
“Why?”
“In case. Just… in case.”
Valerie hung up without saying goodbye. Her hands shook with anger. Documenting expenses. For records. Lynne was clearly preparing to deduct every penny spent on their mother from Valerie’s share.
She walked to the bedroom where their mother, Evelyn, lay on the sofa under a knitted blanket. The old woman dozed, her breathing uneven, face pale. Valerie adjusted the pillow beneath her head and slipped out quietly.
The hallway mirror caught her reflection. Fifty-eight, greying hair, weary eyes. Next to Lynne, she always felt second-best.
Lynne was a senior accountant at a top firm, living in a three-bed in Chelsea, holidaying abroad. A grown son with a good job, two grandchildren.
Valerie had this two-bed flat from their father, her pension, and a sick mother to care for. Never married, no children. A lifetime as a shop assistant at Tesco.
The intercom buzzed. Downstairs, a courier held a bag of medication.
“Evelyn Thompson?” he asked.
“My mother. I’m her daughter.”
“Payment on delivery. Two hundred seventy quid.”
She paid, took the bag, and climbed back up. The meds were dear, but without them, her mother would suffer. Lynne would send the money but demand receipts, noting every expense in her little book.
Evelyn stirred as Valerie brought her the pills.
“Val, who was that on the phone?” she murmured.
“Lynne. Asking after you.”
“Good girl. Shame she doesn’t visit much.”
Valerie stayed silent. Lynne *was* a good daughter—until time or money were involved. Regular calls, holiday gifts, occasional visits. But when real care was needed? Suddenly, she was too busy.
“Mum, remember what you said about the flat?” Valerie asked softly, helping her take the pills.
“What flat, love?”
“This one. You said you’d leave it to Lynne and me equally.”
Evelyn frowned, trying to focus.
“Yes. You’re both my girls. It’s only fair.”
“Have you thought about how I’ve been looking after you all these years? While Lynne just calls?”
Evelyn studied her.
“Val, Lynne’s job’s demanding. She can’t just drop everything.”
“And I could? I haven’t worked in three years because you can’t be left alone.”
“Don’t be like that. Lynne hasn’t forgotten us. She sends money when I ask.”
Valerie sighed. Her mother didn’t understand—financial help wasn’t the same as daily care. Lynne could afford generosity because she knew Valerie wouldn’t abandon her.
That evening, Lynne called again.
“Val, I’ve sent the money. Has it come through?”
Valerie checked her phone.
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. How’s Mum?”
“Not great. Blood pressure’s unstable, chest pains. The GP says she needs hospital.”
“Hospital?” Lynne’s voice tightened. “Who’ll stay with her? You can’t be there round the clock.”
“Of course I can.”
“Val, be reasonable. Let’s hire a carer. I’ll cover half.”
“A stranger? She needs family!”
“Family needs rest too. You’re exhausted.”
Valerie saw it—another way for Lynne to shift responsibility.
“Lynne, when did you last see Mum?”
A pause.
“Last month. Her birthday.”
“For half an hour. Dropped off a cake and left.”
“The grandkids were over! I couldn’t leave them.”
“Right. And before that?”
“Val, why this inquisition? I’ve told you—I can’t visit often.”
“You *can*. You just don’t want to.”
“That’s unfair! I’ve got a job, a family. You’re on your own—it’s easier for you.”
“Easier?” Valerie nearly laughed. “Easier to wake up every night? Spend my pension on her pills? Have no life?”
“Nobody forced you!” Lynne snapped. “You chose this!”
Valerie went quiet. There was truth there. She *had* chosen to care for her mother. Because no one else would.
“Lynne, be honest. If something happened to me tomorrow, would you look after Mum?”
“Of course!”
“Yourself? Or would you hire someone?”
Silence.
“A carer, probably,” Lynne admitted softly. “I can’t take that much time off.”
“Exactly. I’ve been home three years without pay.”
“But I compensate! I send money when needed.”
“Money isn’t the same as time. Or health.”
After the call, Valerie lay awake, turning it over. Lynne wasn’t cruel—just selfish. Used to others bearing the weight while she paid her way out.
The next morning, Margaret knocked with pastries.
“How’s Evelyn, love?” she asked kindly.
“Not well. The doctor insists on hospital.”
“And your sister? Will she help?”
Valerie smirked bitterly.
“Lynne suggests a carer. She’ll pay half.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Typical. The successful ones can open their wallets, but not their schedules.”
“She keeps going on about inheritance too. Says we’ll split the flat equally.”
Margaret’s eyes widened.
“After you’ve done all the caring?”
“I’ve done it. But she thinks it’s my duty since I’m single.”
“Val, have you seen the will?”
“What will?”
“Your mum’s. Maybe she’s already decided something you don’t know about.”
Valerie considered it. Her mother had only ever said things should be fair—never mentioned a will.
That evening, she broached it gently.
“Mum, have you made a will?”
Evelyn looked puzzled.
“Why? I’ve only got this flat. It’ll go to you and Lynne equally.”
“But Mum, *I* look after you. Lynne just sends money sometimes.”
Evelyn patted her hand.
“I know it’s hard, love. But Lynne helps how she can. Money *is* help.”
“Money runs out. Time doesn’t come back.”
“Don’t say that. You’re not doing this for the flat, are you?”
Valerie flushed. Of course not. But fairness mattered.
“No. But it stings that Lynne gets the same as me.”
Evelyn thought for a moment.
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. Account for all the costs? What I’As Valerie glanced at the silent phone, she realized no amount of fairness could fill the quiet left by a sister’s absence.