I have a sister with whom I no longer wish to share any ties. The bond between us cracked long ago, and now I see clearly—we are too different to understand one another. Her name is Eleanor, and she dwells in a grand manor on the outskirts of a bustling city. Her home has everything: spacious rooms, the latest comforts, even a private pool in the garden. Eleanor earned it all herself—first by working abroad, then by starting her own business in England. She’s a solicitor, and a remarkably successful one at that. Yet her success hasn’t made her a pleasant companion.
My name is Catherine, five years younger than Eleanor. We grew up together in a quiet village where everyone knew each other. Our parents were ordinary folk—Mum taught at the local school, Dad worked at the factory. As children, we were close, sharing secrets and dreaming of the future. But as she grew older, Eleanor changed. She was always ambitious, craving more than our small town could offer. After school, she left to study in London, then abroad. I admired her, believing she’d achieve greatness while staying kind. I was wrong.
When Eleanor returned years later, she was a different woman—cold, haughty. She spoke to me not as a sister but as some distant acquaintance who couldn’t fathom her “higher station.” Her words often carried reproach: why didn’t I strive for more? Why did I settle for “such simplicity”? But I never sought to compete. I have my own happiness: I work at the library, married to William, with two children. We aren’t wealthy, but we are content. I love my job, our quiet evenings at home, walks with the children. To Eleanor, though, it all seemed dull and small.
Once, I invited her to my daughter Emily’s birthday, hoping to mend things. She came but acted as though she were granting us a favour with her presence. She criticised everything—the food, our modest home, even how we raised our children. She gifted Emily an expensive tablet but muttered, “Perhaps this will teach you something useful.” I was stunned. William tried to lighten the mood, but Eleanor only sighed and glanced at her watch. That night, I knew I never wanted to see her again.
The final straw was our mother’s illness. When Mum fell seriously ill and needed surgery, I cared for her, took leave, arranged doctors. Eleanor knew but never called, never visited. She only sent a message: “Send the bill; I’ll transfer the money.” I never asked for her money—I wanted her presence, her support. But to Eleanor, everything seemed measured in pounds. Mum recovered but never received that call from her eldest daughter. It broke her heart, and it opened mine to who my sister had become.
Now Eleanor lives her life, and I live mine. Sometimes she writes, inviting me to her manor, but I refuse. I won’t endure her lectures or watch her flaunt her wealth. I don’t want her money or gifts. I cherish my family, my children, our simple joys. Perhaps she thinks me a failure—so be it. I know happiness isn’t found in pools or posh cars.
Sometimes I miss the Eleanor from my childhood. But that girl is gone. In her place is a woman who forgot what family means. I bear no grudge, but neither will I keep her in my life. I have William, my children, my friends—those who value me as I am. Let Eleanor stay in her perfect world. Maybe one day she’ll realise what she’s lost.
