**A Rift Forever**
“You’re no sister of mine!” screamed Evelyn, choking on her sobs. “I hate you! Take your little thief and get out!”
“You’ll crawl on your knees begging someday, Imogen!” spat Imogen, her face burning with indignation. “You’ll plead for forgiveness, but to me, you’re already dead!”
Imogen seized her weeping daughter’s hand and slammed the door behind her with a final scornful “Ugh!” The words, hurled in the heat of the moment, weren’t just cruel—they were prophetic. Evelyn and Imogen never saw each other again. Countries shifted, eras passed, but the sisters could never bridge the chasm of their bitterness. Had there even been anything to forgive?
Evelyn and Imogen were twins, yet their souls belonged to different worlds. Quiet, reserved Imogen always faded beside vivacious, fiery Evelyn. Naturally—Evelyn had been born fifteen minutes earlier, and she never let Imogen forget it. “The burden of being the eldest,” she liked to say.
Fights between them were rare. When they were orphaned at nineteen, their bond only tightened. But life has a way of scattering even the closest, flinging them to distant corners. Evelyn married first and moved to Manchester, swallowed by the city’s relentless rhythm. Imogen stayed in their sleepy village, Wheatford, soon settling with her own family. Distance didn’t sever them—letters, calls, and rare visits kept the thread intact.
Imogen became a mother first. Her daughter Poppy, with the same hazel eyes and dimpled cheeks, was her mirror image. Evelyn struggled for years to conceive. Only after twelve years of marriage did she finally have a son, Oliver—her miracle, the center of her universe.
Imogen and Poppy often visited Manchester, hauling gifts from the countryside: sacks of apples, jars of blackberry jam, thick clotted cream. Evelyn would grumble but accept them gratefully. “Ollie’s too thin,” Imogen would fuss. “Needs proper country fat on his bones!” Evelyn would roll her eyes, smile, and in those moments, feel truly happy.
But tragedy never warns before it strikes.
Evelyn’s husband collapsed, dead from a sudden heart attack before the ambulance even arrived. The doctors could only shrug—too fast, too final. Her world shattered. At forty-two, Evelyn was left with three-year-old Oliver, meager savings, and a gaping hole in her chest. How could she go on? Raise a child alone?
Imogen tried to help, but what could ease such loss? All she could do was stay.
“Evie, let Poppy stay with you a while?” Imogen suggested. “She’s finished school, summer’s ahead. She can mind Ollie, help around the house. Keep you company.”
Imogen longed to stay longer herself, but the farm and her husband—who’d burn the house down unsupervised—needed her. Still, she couldn’t abandon Evelyn.
“Immy, you know Poppy’s like a daughter to me,” Evelyn said. “If she’s willing, let her stay.”
“Poppy’s thrilled!” Imogen brightened. “Says she’ll apply to uni here for design. Youth, eh? Whole life ahead. Under your watch, she’ll study, help out—win-win.”
Evelyn was grateful. After her husband’s death, the flat felt hollow, loneliness gnawing at her. When Oliver slept, she sobbed into the silence. Maybe Poppy could fill just a little of the void?
Poppy proved a godsend. While Evelyn worked, Poppy fetched Ollie from nursery, cooked supper, then hit the books. Life began stitching itself back together.
Then, like fragile china, it shattered again.
The fortieth-day memorial for Evelyn’s husband approached. She planned a modest gathering but was short on cash. Payday was a week away. “I’ll take from the emergency fund, top it up later,” she decided, reaching into the cupboard for the old biscuit tin where her husband kept savings.
He’d dreamed of a new car, scrimping and planning. Now that money was survival. “He’d understand,” Evelyn told herself, prying open the tin.
It was empty.
Panic whirled. Who could’ve taken it? When? She hadn’t checked in half a year—first Ollie was ill, then her husband was gone. No one knew about the tin!
Then, chilling clarity: Only someone close would look there…
“Aunt Evie, I passed my first exam!” Poppy burst in, beaming. “Two more, and I’m in!”
Evelyn didn’t answer. She sat at the table, clutching the tin, her face stone.
“Poppy. Where’s the money?” Her voice trembled with rage. “Spent it? Gave it away? Tell me the truth!”
Poppy froze. “What money?”
“The money you stole from this tin!” Evelyn hurled it at the wall, barely missing Poppy.
“I—I didn’t! I swear!” Tears streamed.
“Then who did?” Evelyn was beyond reason. “You’re the only one skulking about!”
Just then, Imogen walked in early to help with the memorial. She dropped her bags at the shouting.
“What’s going—?”
Evelyn whirled on her. “Oh, here she is! Raised a thief, now face the consequences! Return it now, or I’m calling the police! Both of you!”
Poppy wept, Imogen tried to reason, but Evelyn was deaf. Betrayal blinded her. In that fury, they made a vow—to erase each other from their lives.
“I have no sister,” each thought, drowning in venom.
Evelyn nursed her fury. The more she blamed Imogen and Poppy, the hotter her hatred burned. How could family do this? Left alone, she battled the world.
The recession deepened her struggles. Evelyn worked herself to the bone, scraping by. How she longed to call Imogen, to share the weight of survival! Imogen would’ve come with arms full, warmth and laughter. But pride was stronger.
Years fled in the grind. Evelyn never remarried—no time. Oliver grew, left home at eighteen for uni, became a barrister, married. Now prosperous, nearly mortgage-free, he visited less—his mother’s bitterness pushed him away.
“Mum, why aren’t you answering?” Oliver burst in, panting. “I thought something happened!”
“Your bloody phone’s off!” Evelyn snapped.
Oliver sighed. He called daily; if she didn’t answer, he raced. At seventy-nine, he couldn’t risk it.
“Let’s sort it,” he said gently. “Cuppa?”
Evelyn led him to the kitchen frozen in time: peeling wallpaper, a faded Paddington calendar, a Jubilee coin—all preserved like relics.
“Mum, don’t panic,” Oliver began carefully. “Aunt Imogen died yesterday…”
Evelyn stiffened but gave nothing away. “How’d you know?”
“Poppy rang.”
“You talk to that thief?” Her voice could’ve frosted glass.
“Mum, enough!” Oliver snapped. “We’ve kept in touch. She didn’t steal!”
“You know what I suffered because of them?” Evelyn shook with rage. “Slaving to raise you, while they feasted on my money!”
“Mum, that was never proved!”
“Out!” she shrieked. “If you’re with them, you’re no son of mine!”
Oliver left, knowing she wouldn’t listen. He’d wanted to say Imogen had begged for reconciliation on her deathbed. But Evelyn was stone.
The next day, a neighbour called—Evelyn had collapsed. Oliver rushed to hospital, too late. She’d died, mere days after her sister.
“Love, if we sell this flat, we’ll need to renovate,” Oliver’s wife mused, eyeing the clutter. “Chuck all this junk.”
She tugged the Jubilee coin from the wall. It clattered down, and behind it—fluttered forgotten notes. Crisp, old. Oliver froze. His father must’ve moved the money.
But now, no one left to ask.