Fifteen Years in the Dark: How My Sister Traded Life for Delusions and Now Demands Payment
My sister’s name is Emily. She’s 37, and for fifteen years, she’s been trapped in her own illusions. Once, we all tried to save her. Mum and Dad begged, pleaded, set traps of love to pull her from the pit. Now… Dad’s gone, Mum barely holds on, and Emily has only just decided it’s time for divorce. And, of course, she looks to us—help me, stand by me, don’t abandon me.
It began in her university days. She fell head over heels for a classmate, a self-absorbed “musician” named Oliver. The sort who calls himself an artist but never amounted to anything. Played in some underground band, bounced between dodgy pubs, every night ending in a bottle. The whole family was horrified. Our parents begged Emily to think, warned her not to rush into marriage. I tried to talk sense into her, but she wouldn’t listen. Love, she said, was all that mattered.
She married him young. And from then on—it was like a curse. Oliver refused to work, lived off her odd jobs. Thought himself too refined for “corporate drudgery.” Emily carried everything: the flat, the bills, his drunken rages. He’d hurl a mug at her, shove her in anger, but she excused it all as “his sensitive soul.”
Whenever he vanished on another bender, Emily ran to our parents. Stayed for weeks, begged for money. We didn’t know how to reach her. Dad suggested she move out. Mum ached watching her scrape by with a man who barely noticed her—or their fragile little girl.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, frail, needing constant care. The doctors warned of complications early on. Oliver only drank harder. Emily stayed. Said she couldn’t abandon him in his pain. As if he suffered more. The girl didn’t live a year. Mum collapsed—her heart couldn’t take it. The attacks started. Dad held on, desperate to save at least Emily. But it was no use.
She stayed with Oliver. Years passed. She had another child—a son this time. Healthy, they say. By then, I’d stopped speaking to her. I was tired. Tired of watching her self-destruct. My husband and I lived our lives. Mum occasionally mentioned the boy.
Then, last year, Dad died. The doctors couldn’t stop it—massive heart attack. Mum crumbled, her attacks returning. I visit daily, do what I can. And then, Emily calls. Says she’s done—she’s divorcing him. Oliver’s drinking again, won’t work, won’t pay child support. She needs to survive. And of course, she expects our help.
*”I’m exhausted, I’ve got a child to raise, no money. I just want a normal life,”* she choked out.
Mum stayed silent. Eyes cast down. But I—I couldn’t hold back. 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 save her.
*”Now that Mum needs help, you remember you have problems? Where were you when we buried Dad? Where were you when we needed you? Now your eyes are suddenly open?”*
Emily shrieked: *”If you won’t help, you’ll never see my son again!”*
With that, she stormed out, slamming the door. I would’ve gone after her, but Mum clutched her chest, gasping. Called an ambulance, lay there pale as linen, trembling. Only fell asleep near dawn. My heart breaks for Mum. For my nephew. But not for Emily.
She chose this path. Traded reality for delusions. Now that it’s crumbling, she looks for someone to blame. And I’m done playing rescuer. I’m exhausted.
If I see Emily again—I don’t know if I’ll hold back.
