Free What's Yours Is Mine by Tess Stimson Page B

fucking penny in child support. I’d like to see how Grace would’ve coped. Where was she when I was stuck in that crappy council flat with two screaming kids, no money, no job, and no bloody man? I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat; I was down to less than six stone, and some days I couldn’t even face getting out of bed. Grace never even came to visit me in the hospital after I OD’d on my antidepressants and had to have my stomach pumped. So, she paid for a private room. So what? I’d just lost my kids—Social Services stuck them into foster care before I’d even come around—and needed a bit of TLC from my sister, not a fucking open checkbook.
    I stub out my cigarette, my hand shaking. “I don’t want to get into it now,” I say. “If you had kids of your own, you’d understand.”
    â€œIf I had kids of my own,” Grace snaps, “they wouldn’t have been living with complete strangers for the past five years while I spent my time screwing anything in trousers.”
    Nobody breathes. I bite my lip, unable to believe she just said that, in front of everyone. How
could
she?
    Does she think I
wanted
to fuck up my life? That I usedto lie in bed when I was a little girl and dream of reaching the age of thirty-four with three divorces under my belt, a father who hasn’t spoken to me in ten years, and two boys by two different men who wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street? Some happy-ever-after. I haven’t done a single worthwhile thing in my entire life; except, perhaps, letting my sons go so they could have a chance of a better life without me.
    â€œShe didn’t mean any of that,” Tom says, as Grace runs into the house.
    â€œYes, she did, Tom.”
    Claudia stands up. “Let me go and talk to her.”
    â€œGrace isn’t herself at the moment.” Tom sighs, as Claudia goes inside. “She’s been having a difficult time recently. She’s just lashing out, and you’re an easy target.”
    I push back my chair. “She’s right. I can’t stay here forever. The doctors have no idea when Mum’s going to wake up, and you don’t need a permanent houseguest. I’ll go in the morning.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. It’ll blow over. Anyway, where would you go?”
    He has a point. But I don’t want to stay, not if it’s going to be like this. I’d rather take my chances with U.S. Immigration. I thought Mum being sick might bring us closer together, but Grace is just a total bitch. To think I actually felt sorry for her at the hospital because she was so upset about Mum! I can’t believe we’re even related, never mind sisters. We’re not friends. We’re never going to be. The sooner I leave, the better for all concerned.
    I go into the house, pausing only to get a new pack of smokes from my bag on the hall table. There’s a low murmur of voices in the kitchen; and then I hear the sound of someone sobbing.
Grace
.
    OK, I know I shouldn’t listen. But Grace crying? Grace
never
cries. Not even when our marmalade kitten, Orlando, climbed into the wheel arch of next-door’s car for a nap and got turned into roadkill when Mr. Tanner left for work. Buttoned-up, freaky-calm Grace doesn’t do excessive displays of emotion. She’d spontaneously combust before she lost it over a man.
    â€œâ€¦Â get a second opinion,” Claudia is saying. “This is just one doctor, one test. He could be wrong—”
    â€œHe’s not wrong. I saw the ultrasound. There’s so much scarring on my ovaries, there’s no chance of getting a decent egg, even with IVF.”
    â€œWhat about using a donor egg?”
    Grace laughs shortly. “I’m that one-in-a-million woman who has also been blessed with a T-shaped uterus, apparently, which means I can’t carry a baby to full term. There’s no chance, Claudia.