Beloved, Yet a Foe
Margaret stood by the window, watching her neighbour, Edith, take out the rubbish. Edith—a trim, well-kept woman in her sixties—wore a neat dress, her hair perfectly arranged. Even this mundane task she performed as though attending a social call. Unthinkingly, Margaret adjusted her faded dressing gown and stepped back.
The telephone rang in the kitchen. Margaret walked over slowly, already knowing who it would be. Tuesday calls always came from her sister, Beatrice.
«Margaret, hello—it’s me,» came the familiar voice. «How are things?»
«Well enough,» Margaret replied curtly, sitting on the stool by the telephone table.
«Listen, I’ve been thinking… Remember what Mum always said? That she’d leave the house to us equally? You know… when the time comes.»
Margaret tensed. Every conversation with Beatrice circled back to this.
«I remember. What of it?»
«Nothing, really. It’s just that David thinks we ought to sort the paperwork beforehand. To avoid complications later.»
David—Beatrice’s husband, a well-off solicitor. He always had advice on financial matters.
«Mum’s still alive, thank God,» Margaret said dryly. «It’s too soon for such talk.»
«Of course, of course. But she’s not young anymore, dear. Eighty-four. And her health isn’t what it was.»
Margaret winced. Beatrice had a way of saying the right thing in the wrong tone.
«She’s managing. I look after her every day.»
«And I’m not criticising you for it!» Beatrice said quickly. «You’re marvellous, truly. But I can’t visit daily—work, the grandchildren—»
Margaret closed her eyes. Always the same. Beatrice would remind her of her busy, successful life, then segue into questions of inheritance.
«Beatrice, Mum needs medicine. Expensive ones. I haven’t the money.»
«Naturally I’ll help! How much?»
«Three hundred pounds.»
A pause.
«Three hundred? That seems steep for medicine.»
«It’s not just medicine. There are tests, private consultations.»
«I see. Very well, I’ll send the money. But do keep the receipts, won’t you? So we know where it’s gone.»
Margaret gripped the receiver tighter.
«I’m not a thief, Beatrice. Don’t treat me like one.»
«Don’t be silly! It’s merely for records. David insists we document all parental expenses.»
«Why?»
«In case. One never knows.»
Margaret hung up without farewell, hands shaking with anger. Documenting expenses. For records. Beatrice was clearly preparing to deduct every penny she spent on their mother from Margaret’s eventual share.
She walked to the sitting room, where their mother, Agnes Whitmore, dozed beneath a knitted blanket on the sofa. The old woman’s breathing was uneven, her face pale. Margaret adjusted the pillow beneath her head and slipped out quietly.
A large mirror hung in the hallway. Margaret paused before it, critically studying herself. Fifty-eight years, grey hair, weary eyes. Next to her accomplished sister, she always felt like a shadow.
Beatrice was chief accountant at a prominent firm, lived in a three-bedroom flat in central London, holidayed abroad. She had a grown son with a good salary and two grandchildren.
Margaret had only this two-bedroom house from their father, her pension, and an ailing mother to care for. Never married, no children. Her whole life spent as a shopkeeper in a local grocer’s.
The intercom buzzed. Margaret descended to find a courier with a parcel of medicines.
«Agnes Whitmore?» the young man asked.
«That’s my mother. I’m her daughter.»
«Payment on delivery. Two hundred eighty pounds.»
Margaret paid, carried the parcel upstairs. The medicine *was* dear, but without it, her mother would suffer. Beatrice would send the money—and demand every receipt, noting each sum in her little book.
Agnes stirred when Margaret brought her pills.
«Darling, who was on the phone?» she murmured.
«Beatrice. Asking after you.»
«Good girl. Shame she visits so seldom.»
Margaret said nothing. Beatrice *was* a good daughter—until it involved time or money. She rang dutifully, sent gifts, visited occasionally. But when real care was needed, there were always reasons she couldn’t stay.
«Mum, you remember what you said about the house?» Margaret ventured as she helped her take the pills.
«What house, dear?»
«This one. You said you’d leave it equally to Beatrice and me.»
Agnes frowned, struggling to focus.
«Yes, of course. You’re both my daughters. It must be fair.»
«But have you thought how I’ve cared for you all these years? Beatrice only calls.»
Her mother studied her.
«Margaret, Beatrice has a demanding job. She can’t drop everything to stay home.»
«And *I* had no job, I suppose? I’ve not worked these three years because you can’t be left alone.»
«Darling, don’t. Beatrice hasn’t forgotten us. She sends money when asked.»
Margaret sighed. Her mother didn’t understand—money wasn’t the same as daily care. Beatrice could afford generosity because she knew Margaret would never abandon their mother.
That evening, Beatrice rang again.
«Margaret, I’ve sent the money. Has it come through?»
Margaret checked her mobile.
«It has. Thank you.»
«Don’t mention it. How’s Mother?»
«Poorly. Her blood pressure’s erratic, her heart pains her. The doctor says she ought to be hospitalised.»
«Hospital? You can’t sit with her day and night!»
«I can, and I will.»
«Don’t be absurd. Let’s hire a nurse. I’ll pay half.»
«A nurse? She needs family beside her!»
«But *you* need rest. You look exhausted.»
Margaret understood—another attempt to shift responsibility.
«Beatrice, when did you last see Mother?»
A pause.
«Well… Last month. Her birthday.»
«For half an hour. You brought a cake and left.»
«The grandchildren were visiting! I couldn’t leave them.»
«And before her birthday?»
«Must we quarrel? I’ve explained—I can’t visit often.»
«You *could*. You choose not to.»
«That’s unfair! I’ve obligations—work, family. You live alone; it’s easier for you.»
«Easier?» Margaret couldn’t believe her ears. «Easier to wake nightly for her? Spend my pension on her medicines? Easier to have no life of my own?»
«No one *makes* you care for her!» Beatrice snapped. «You chose this!»
Margaret fell silent. There was truth in that. She *had* chosen to care for her mother—because no one else would.
«Beatrice, tell me honestly. If something happened to me tomorrow, would *you* look after Mum?»
«Of course! What a question!»
«Yourself? Or would you hire a nurse?»
Silence.
«A nurse, likely,» Beatrice admitted quietly. «I truly can’t leave my work.»
«There, you see. I’ve been home three years without pay.»
«But I *compensate* you! I send money when needed.»
«Money isn’t time. Isn’t health.»
After the call, Margaret lay awake, turning it all over. Beatrice wasn’t cruel—just selfish. Accustomed to others bearing burdens while she paid her way.
The next morning, neighbour Edith visited with scones.
«How’s Agnes?» she asked kindly.
«Not well. The doctor insists on hospital.»
«And your sister? Will she help?»
Margaret smiled bitterly.
«Beatrice suggests hiring a nurse. She’ll pay half.»
Edith shook her head.
«Typical of the successful ones. Can help with money, never with time.»
«She speaks often of inheritance. Says we’ll divide the house equally.»
«Well!» Edith huffed. «After you’ve carried your mother all these years?»
«I have. She thinks it my duty, as I live alone.»
«Margaret, have you seen the will?»
«What will?»
«Your mother’s. Perhaps she’s decided already.»
Margaret considered. Indeed, her mother had never mentioned a will, only fairness.
That evening, she asked cautiously:
«Mum, have you made a will?»
Agnes looked surprised.
«Why would I? There’s only this house. It will be divided fairly.»
«But Mum, *I* care for you. Beatrice only sends money.»
«Darling,» her mother took her hand, «I know it’s hard. But Beatrice helps as she can. Money *is* help.»
«Money runs out. Time doesn’t return.»
«Don’t say so. You don’t tend me for the house, do you?»
Margaret flushed. Of course not. But fairness mattered.
«No. But it grieves me that Beatrice will receive as much as I.»
Agnes thought a while.
«What do you propose?»
«I don’t know. Account for expenses? What I’ve spentBut as she watched her mother sleep that night, Margaret realized that no sum of money could ever measure the love she had given, nor erase the quiet loneliness that settled in her heart at the thought of losing both her sister and the home they once shared.