My arrival at our shared flat has ruined my sister’s life—now her husband is filing for divorce, and she blames me.
My sister Emily claims I’m the reason her husband left her. No, he didn’t leave her for me, but according to her, if I had just stayed out of their lives, they would have been happy. Of course, they could have carried on enjoying our shared flat in Manchester while I rented somewhere else and paid strangers instead. But I wasn’t about to give up what was rightfully mine.
Emily and I inherited the two-bedroom flat from our parents. Mum and Dad passed away when we were already adults—I was 20, Emily was 18. I was studying in London and stayed there after university, while Emily remained in our parents’ home up north.
I spent seven years in London but grew tired of the chaos of the city and decided to move back home. I work remotely, so changing jobs wasn’t an issue. But Emily managed to stun me. We were never close, not even after losing our parents. We each grieved in our own way—phone calls were rare, conversations surface-level. When I found out Emily had married without telling me, it cut deep. She didn’t say a word, didn’t invite me to the wedding. She’s my sister, yet I bit my tongue.
My return to Manchester and moving back into our shared flat caused an uproar. Emily and her husband James were hoping I’d change my mind—they hadn’t even cleared out my old room, despite me telling them weeks in advance. I arrived late in the evening, so rearranging had to wait until morning.
And so began our awkward living arrangement. Emily and James made it obvious I was in the way, but I didn’t care. This was my home too. I kept to myself—no loud music, no guests, barely leaving my room. Still, living with them was unbearable.
Emily never bothered cleaning, and James was worse. The bathroom would be a mess after him—dirty clothes on the floor, water splashed everywhere, my towel sometimes tossed over the rail. He even helped himself to my food. Our shopping habits were different: Emily bought cheaper stuff in bulk, I preferred fewer but quality items. James would take my yoghurt, eat it, then act offended when I called him out.
The kitchen after Emily cooked looked like a hurricane had passed—grease on the stove, sauce stains on the apron, sometimes even the floor needed mopping. Dishes would sit for days until I, tired of seeing empty cupboards, caved and washed them myself. I think that’s exactly what they expected.
Fed up, I suggested a cleaning rota. Emily just scoffed,
*”If dirty dishes bother you, wash them yourself. You tidy up after yourself anyway. You’ve got all the time in the world—we actually work.”*
*”I work too, just from home,”* I shot back.
*”Oh please, you’ve still got it easier.”*
Arguing was pointless. So I took my clean dishes to my room, bought a mini fridge, and put a lock on my door. I only came out when necessary—I wasn’t giving them a chance to snoop.
*”Oh, look at Her Majesty now—might as well label your plates before leaving them in the kitchen!”* Emily mocked. *”James, maybe we should get a lock too—who knows who’s sneaking about?”*
Arguments became daily. What infuriated me was their refusal to compromise. This was *my* home—I wasn’t intruding on *theirs*. I had as much right to be here, more than James, actually. Still, I avoided conflict.
After another row over the filthy bathroom, I started packing. Two days later, I moved out.
*”Good riddance,”* Emily spat.
What she didn’t know was that I’d decided to sell my share. Two weeks later, I sent her a formal offer—buy me out, or I’d find another buyer. She rang, furious.
*”Have you lost your mind? Why sell the flat?”*
*”Because you and your husband made it impossible for me to live there. I’ll sell my half, get a mortgage, and you can do whatever you want.”*
*”Sell to strangers? That’ll ruin us!”*
*”Or we sell together and both get mortgages for our own places.”*
She kept insisting they couldn’t afford it, demanding to know why I was interfering. I told her I refused to be miserable under their roof. She wanted the whole flat for herself—while I wandered with nowhere to go? Not happening.
I gave her a week to decide. Instead, two days later, she called claiming she was pregnant. I congratulated her, then asked if she’d considered my offer.
*”Are you serious? I’m pregnant! We can’t get a mortgage now—we’ll have a baby!”*
I laughed. The offer still stood.
Another two days passed. Then she called in tears. Turned out James, hearing about the mortgage, had packed his bags and moved back to his mum’s. The pregnancy? A lie to guilt-trip me.
Now James is filing for divorce, and Emily sobs that *I* wrecked her marriage. Apparently, before I came back, everything was perfect—their own place, no worries. I feel no guilt. They made *my* life hell. I’ve blocked her number—from now on, my solicitor will handle it. I don’t need a sister like her.
