I remember it like a picture from a bygone summer. My sister, Pippa Hargreaves, was a perpetual fashionistaso slender she seemed a reed, forever draped in the latest trends. I, on the other hand, was the ordinary woman of the family. A few extra pounds here, a line or two there; life, as they say, simply goes on.
Every encounter with Pippa turned into a tiny ordeal for me. She never meant malice, only what she called the best intentions. She would sidle up, give me her trademark, almost clinical stare, and launch into her commentary:
Ag, does that dress make you look older? Its rather grannylike.
Ag, a different haircut would shave five years off your face.
Oh, love, that lipstick! No ones worn that colour in a decade!
All delivered with a sweet, sympathetic smile, as if she were bestowing a blessing. Yet each compliment left me feeling lower than the skirting board, and for a week I avoided the mirror.
Was it painful? Most certainly. I was never a glossy magazine cover, and there she wasmy own sisterhitting the soft spot again and again.
At first I endured, laughed it off, changed the subject. The final straw was Mothers jubilee.
Id spent weeks preparing for that celebration. I bought a new, elegant dress, arranged a proper hairdo, applied my finest makeup. I felt like a queen, truly.
We all gathered in a cosy restaurant in townrelatives, friends, everyone dressed to the nines, merrily chatting. Then Pippa sauntered over, took me in from head to toe, and, loud enough for the whole room to hear, announced:
Ag, what on earth is that dress? Its a laugh and a sin just like Aunt Shirleys from the village. If youd asked me for advice, I could’ve picked you something decent.
In that instant the ground seemed to slip from beneath my feet. Shed just spat in my face in front of everyone. Any festive spirit evaporated at once.
And then something clicked inside me. No more silent suffering. This was my turn. After all, I had gone to such lengths for my own appearance.
I didnt raise a scenewhy bother? I drew a deep breath, offered my brightest smile, and cut her words short:
Pippa! I called out, loud and buoyantThank you ever so much! Truly, I appreciate your concern! Youre a real expert at pointing out others flaws!
Pippas eyes widened, as if I were praising her. Naïveté, you see.
Since youre so knowledgeable about everything I continued, rising from my seat with a box Id prepared in advanceI thought Id give you a little present.
All the guests turned their heads, curiosity sparking. I handed her a neatly ribboned parcel, expecting she might think it held perfume or some fancy cosmetics.
Inside lay a beautifully printed certificate on thick, expensive paper: a voucher for a private session with a renowned psychologist, titled Boosting SelfEsteem Without Diminishing Others. I read the title aloud, making sure everyonefrom the diners to the kitchen staff and even the coach driver passing the inn could hear.
Here you go, sister I said as she looked up at me, bewilderedI thought you might find this useful. Itll help you become truly confident, rather than proving yourself at my expense. As they say, right on the money!
Her face was a study in stages. First bewilderment, then dawning comprehension, and finally her cheeks flushed a crimson that no painter could capture.
A hush fell over the room, broken only by an uncles booming laugh, followed by the rest of the family joining in. All those sharp remarks, those poisonous barbs, had been laid bare. Shed tried to belittle me, yet it was she who turned into the laughingstock.
The finale was swift. Pippa muttered something, snatched her bag, and fled the room.
To answer the inevitable questionyes, we made up. After all, were sisters.
From that day onward, Pippa never again mentioned my looks. Our conversations now revolve solely around the weather, and honestly, thats pleasant.
Thats the tale. Thank you for listening to the end. If it struck a chord, do give a likeit means a great deal to me. And please, share your own stories in the commentshas anything similar happened to you? Pass it on to a friend; after all, stories are meant to be shared.