“How am I supposed to go on now?” she whispered to herself, staring blankly at the rain-streaked window. “My own sister—a traitor.”
Her marriage had been the envy of everyone—harmonious, steady, warm. Gavin was always the perfect gentleman, tender at home, courteous in company. Even her closest friends had marvelled, half-joking, “No one’s that perfect. There’s got to be a catch.” She’d laugh it off. Now, she wishes she hadn’t. Perhaps they had jinxed it.
The collapse came without warning. It started when her younger sister, Poppy, lost her job in Manchester. Stranded with no income and drowning in shame, Poppy had nowhere to turn. They had always been close—closer still after their mother’s passing. Without hesitation, she invited Poppy to stay in their London flat until she got back on her feet. They cleared out the guest room, made space.
At first, it was fine. Then, something shifted. Gavin grew restless, snapping over nothing—a misplaced mug, laundry hung “wrong.” The warmth in his eyes when she returned from work faded. He became sullen, picking fights over trifles, always blaming Poppy.
She brushed it off as stress. One evening, she gently confronted Poppy: “Just… be mindful, alright? We all need to keep the peace.” Poppy nodded—”Of course”—but her eyes darted away.
Then came the day that shattered everything.
She came home early. The flat was silent, but instinct pricked at her. Pushing open the bedroom door, her legs buckled. There they were—Gavin and Poppy, tangled beneath the duvet that still smelled of her lavender detergent.
They didn’t even flinch in time. She shut the door quietly, walked to the kitchen, gripping the counter until her knuckles whitened. Her pulse roared; the walls seemed to tilt. Every promise, every quiet morning, every “I love you”—all lies.
No shouting. No scene. She packed Gavin’s things in silence, left them by the door. Poppy she ejected immediately—no patience for tears, for stammered excuses. How? How could flesh and blood drive a knife into her like this?
Months have passed. The questions haven’t. Can betrayal like this ever heal? The hollowness in her chest hasn’t faded. Yet she breathes. One day, she’ll trust again—but never blindly. Time doesn’t heal. It just teaches you to walk with the wound.
