**Fifteen Years of Blindness: How My Sister Chose Illusions Over Life, and Now Demands a Reckoning**
My sister’s name is Alice. She’s 37, and for fifteen years, she’s been trapped in her own delusions. Once, we all tried to save her. Mum and Dad begged, pleaded, set traps of care to pull her out of the pit. But now… Dad’s gone, Mum’s barely holding on, and Alice has only just decided it’s time for a divorce. And, of course, she looks to us with hope—*help me, stand by me, don’t abandon me*.
It started back in university. Alice fell head over heels for a self-absorbed “musician” named Oliver. The kind who called himself an artist but never amounted to anything. Played in some dingy band, bounced between pubs, and every night with his “creative circle” ended with a bottle. Our whole family was horrified. Mum and Dad begged Alice to think it through, warned her not to rush into marriage. I tried talking her out of it, too, but she wouldn’t listen. Love, she said, was all that mattered.
She married him young, and ever since—it’s been like a curse. Oliver refused to work, lived off her odd jobs. Thought himself too refined for “office drudgery.” Alice carried everything: the house, the bills, his drunken rages. He’d hurl a mug at her, shove her angrily, but she excused it all as his “sensitive soul.”
When he’d disappear on another bender, Alice would run to our parents. Stayed for weeks, asking for money. We didn’t know how to reach her anymore. Dad suggested she move in, Mum ached watching her scrape by with a man who barely noticed her—or their frail little girl.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, weak, needing constant care. The doctors warned there could be complications. Oliver drank even harder then. And Alice? She stayed. Said she couldn’t abandon him in his darkest hour—*he was suffering too*. The girl lived less than a year. Mum collapsed after that, heart in pieces. Dad held on—he still wanted to save *someone*. But it was hopeless.
Alice stayed with Oliver. Years passed. She had another child—a boy. Healthy, they said. By then, I’d stopped speaking to her. I was tired. Sick of watching someone wreck themselves. My husband and I built our own life. Mum mentioned the grandson sometimes.
Then Dad died last year. A heart attack—too sudden for the doctors. Mum crumbled; her episodes returned. I visit daily, do what I can. And then Alice called. Said she was done—finally divorcing. Oliver’s drinking again, refuses to work, won’t pay child support. And she, of course, expects us to step in.
*”I’m exhausted. I’ve got a child to raise, no money. I want a normal life,”* she choked out.
Mum stayed silent, eyes down. But I—I couldn’t stay quiet. Laid it all out: how we tried to help, how she ignored us, lived in a fantasy where she was the victim and we were meant to rescue her.
*”Now that Mum needs help, you remember you have problems? Where were you when we lost Dad? Now, suddenly, you see the truth?”*
Alice shrieked: *”If you won’t help, you’ll never see your nephew again!”*
She stormed out, slamming the door. I’d have gone after her, but Mum clutched her chest, gasping. Called an ambulance, lay pale as linen, couldn’t calm down. Only slept near dawn. My heart breaks for Mum. My heart breaks for that boy. But not for Alice.
She chose this. Traded help for illusions. Now that it’s all fallen apart, she needs someone to blame. And I’m done being the rescuer. I’m tired.
If I see Alice again—I don’t know if I’ll hold back.
