**Thursday, 12th October**
I always believed family was my anchor. That a sister would be the first to reach out when the world turned away. Clearly, I was wrong. The deepest betrayal didn’t come from strangers. It came from Laura. My own sister.
We couldn’t have been more different. Me—the elder, steady, reserved, quiet. She—the younger, headstrong, impulsive. As girls, I covered for her with our parents, pulled her out of scrapes, helped with schoolwork. Later, with her degree, her job. But above all—with a roof over her head.
The flat we grew up in was left to us after our parents passed. Three bedrooms in central London—a costly inheritance. The deeds were in my name, but I never thought of it as just mine. Laura and I agreed: she’d stay until she married, and I’d rent nearby to give her space. A decent job had come up in the next borough, so I thought—fine. I’d move back later. Family comes first.
But “later” stretched into years. Laura married, had a son, divorced. Brought another man home. When I hinted at returning, she’d cut me off:
“Oh, come off it—it’s too much space for you alone! And we’re cramped enough as it is with my boy…”
Always with that false sweetness. When I finally asked outright, she dropped the act:
“Honestly, the flat’s as much mine as yours. We both grew up here. Mum always said things should be fair. You just got to the paperwork first.”
That stung. I’d never been greedy. But to hear it—from *her*?
I took her to court. A month later, the summons came—a counterclaim. She’d hired a solicitor. Dug up old receipts, lined up witnesses. Tried to prove I’d “promised” her the flat. Even faked letters where I supposedly gave up my share. That’s when it hit me—she wasn’t my sister anymore.
The case dragged on for six months. I fought to prove what should’ve been obvious. Laura sat there smiling, bringing her son to hearings, saying, “I’m just protecting my child’s future.” As if I were some villain, not the boy’s own aunt.
When the ruling came in my favour, I felt no victory. Just hollow. Walking back into my own flat, everything felt alien—the furniture, the smells, the walls. Like a guest in the home I’d once lived in.
Two days later, a courier arrived with a letter. From Laura. One sentence: *”You didn’t lose to me—you lost your family.”*
And the bitter truth? She’s right. I did lose my family. Not because I wanted money or square footage. But because I dared to stand my ground. And that’s when I learned: blood doesn’t guarantee loyalty. Sometimes, a sister cuts deeper than any enemy.
