**Diary Entry**
I have a sister I no longer wish to have anything to do with. Our bond cracked long ago, and now I see clearly—we’re too different to find common ground. Her name is Eleanor, and she lives in a lavish mansion on the outskirts of Greater London. Her home has everything: spacious rooms, modern appliances, even a private pool in the garden. Eleanor earned it herself—first working abroad, then starting her own business back in England. She’s a solicitor, and admittedly, a very successful one. But her success doesn’t make her a pleasant person to be around.
My name is Emily. I’m five years younger than Eleanor. We grew up together in a small town where everyone knew each other. Our parents were ordinary people—Mum taught at the local school, Dad worked at the factory. As children, my sister and I were close, sharing secrets and dreaming about the future. But as she got older, Eleanor changed. She was always ambitious, wanting more than our little town could offer. After school, she left to study in London, then moved abroad. I was proud of her, believing she’d achieve great things while staying kind. I was wrong.
When Eleanor returned years later, she was a different woman—cold, arrogant. She spoke to me as if I were a mere acquaintance, someone too simple to understand her “refined” way of life. Her words often sounded like accusations: why wasn’t I striving for more? Why was I content with “so little”? But I never wanted to compete with her. I have my own happiness—working at the library, married to James, raising our two children. We’re not wealthy, but we’re content. I love my job, our quiet evenings together, walks with the kids. To Eleanor, though, it must all seem dull and insignificant.
Once, I invited her to my daughter Charlotte’s birthday party, hoping it might mend things. Eleanor came but spent the evening acting as if she were doing us a favour by being there. She criticised everything—the food, our modest house, even how we raised the children. She gave Charlotte a pricey tablet but added, “Maybe this will finally teach you something useful.” I was stunned. James tried to lighten the mood, but Eleanor just sighed and kept checking her watch. That night, I knew—I didn’t want to see her again.
The final straw was when Mum fell seriously ill and needed surgery. I took time off work to care for her, finding doctors and arranging everything. Eleanor knew but never called, never visited. All she sent was a text: “Send me the bill, I’ll transfer the money.” I never asked for money—I wanted her there, supporting Mum. But to Eleanor, everything seems measured in pounds. Mum recovered, but she never got that call from her eldest daughter. It broke her heart and made me see my sister for who she’d become.
Now Eleanor lives her life, and I live mine. Sometimes she texts, inviting me to her mansion, but I refuse. I won’t sit through lectures or watch her flaunt her wealth. I don’t need her money or gifts. I treasure my family—my husband, my children, our simple joys. Maybe she thinks I’m a failure. Let her. I know happiness isn’t found in pools or fancy cars.
Occasionally, I miss the Eleanor I remember from childhood. But that girl is gone. In her place is a woman who’s forgotten what family means. I don’t hold a grudge, but I won’t keep her in my life. I have James, my children, my friends—people who value me as I am. Eleanor can stay in her perfect world. I hope one day she realises what she’s lost.
**Lesson learned:** Success means nothing if it costs you your heart.
