PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero
Sitting at her bedside, it didn’t seem possible the figure before me was the same person I used to squabble with over space on the dressing table.
When Granddad died of cancer, he was skeletal; barely making a dent in the sheets, but Jenny was bloated beyond recognition.
At her funeral, one of her friends said in her broad Essex accent “Oh my Gawd. You must be Jenny’s sister.” I’d heard that often before and deeply resented it.
“No, I’m Chloe!” I’d always wanted to scream.
Somehow knowing it would be the last time was unsettling and profoundly sad.
Word Count: 100
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.