“The Accidental Sin That Was Never Forgotten”
“Emily, what’s wrong?!” gasped Marianne when she saw her friend turn pale, staring at her phone screen.
“Eleanor’s gone…” whispered Emily.
“Eleanor? You had a sister? You never mentioned her. Was she a cousin?”
“No… my real sister. We just hadn’t spoken in almost twenty years. I… couldn’t.”
“Good heavens… How old was she?”
“Nine years older than me. Fifty-eight…”
“Was she ill?”
“I don’t know, Marianne… I don’t know anything…” Emily sobbed, dropping her phone to the floor.
When Emily was just three, her older sister Eleanor had cared for her like her own child. Their parents worked from dawn to dusk, leaving Eleanor to raise the little one. They were inseparable—Eleanor growing up, Emily maturing in her shadow.
When Eleanor turned eighteen, she married Edward. Everyone adored him—especially Emily. She was infatuated. Once, she swore she’d only ever marry someone just like him.
The family was close, the sisters’ bond so deep it was as if they shared one soul. When Edward’s job took them to another city—Manchester—Emily visited every weekend.
They’d spend hours in the kitchen, sifting through memories, sharing secrets. Edward never interrupted—he knew how much their time meant.
Emily married too. Disastrously. Her husband was a hidden alcoholic, held together by sheer will until he unraveled. She filed for divorce. And then it happened—the moment that shattered everything.
Edward came back to their hometown on business. Eleanor asked him to check on Emily: “You’re like a brother to her. Talk to her. She’s hurting. Tell her she’s not alone.”
“Of course,” he nodded. “I remember how fragile she is inside.”
He bought fruit, wine, Emily’s favourite chocolates. Rang the doorbell. No answer. He was about to leave when the door finally opened—and there she stood, hollow-eyed, cheeks raw from weeping.
“I’m glad you came…” she barely breathed.
They sat at the table. Emily was silent while Edward rambled about work, about his sons. Then, suddenly, she spoke:
“I couldn’t take it, Edward. He drank—became monstrous. I thought he was like you. That’s why I married him. But he… was nothing like you.”
“Don’t say that, Em…” he murmured. “You deserve so much better.”
She drifted to the window. He followed, wrapping his arms around her: “Just cry. It’ll help.”
She turned—her gaze so wounded, so achingly alone. He pulled her close. Neither remembered whose lips met whose first. Neither understood how they ended up in bed.
By morning, Edward dressed in silence and left. Emily lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to believe what she’d done.
An abyss opened between them. No one knew. No one guessed.
Emily visited less and less. Eleanor was baffled: “Why are you avoiding me? What did I do?”
Emily couldn’t confess she’d betrayed her sister with her husband. Couldn’t bear it. She tried to forget—but the guilt burned.
Edward suffered too. He loved Eleanor. Had never strayed—until that night. Now he carried a shame he buried deep.
Years passed. Emily remarried, had a daughter. She and Eleanor never spoke, never met. Edward fell ill. Treatments failed. Emily went to him despite warnings.
When she saw him—a ghost of the man he once was—her heart twisted. He turned away, unable to face her.
After she left, he called Eleanor close: “Forgive me…” he whispered. “I have to confess. I betrayed you. Just once. With Emily… all those years ago.”
Eleanor froze. Then she stood, wordless, and left. She didn’t return that night.
By dawn, Edward was gone.
Eleanor grieved in silence. Days later, when Emily knocked, she answered, stone-faced:
“Why are you here? To confess too?” she spat.
“What do you mean ‘too’?” Emily paled.
“He told me. You betrayed me. Then pretended nothing happened. Get out. You’re no sister of mine!”
“Eleanor… at least let me come to the funeral—”
“You’re not welcome,” she hissed, slamming the door.
Emily fled like a madwoman, heart pounding, vision blurred. She returned, knocked, called—no answer.
For months, she tried—letters, calls. Silence. Then, one day, Eleanor called back: “One more word, and I’ll tell everyone what you are. Stay gone.”
Emily obeyed.
Twenty years passed. Not a word, not a meeting. And now, just as Emily dared to unwind—visiting Marianne—the message came: Eleanor was dead.
Emily went to say goodbye.
Her nephews greeted her—grown men, distant. They said their mother had been ill for years, silent about everything. Never spoke of Emily.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mum forbade it,” the eldest said. “Called you a stranger. Sorry.”
At the graveside, Emily’s stomach dropped—Eleanor was buried far from Edward.
“Why not together?”
“Mum refused to share a plot. Said she never forgave him… or you.”
Emily broke. Fell to her knees, weeping:
“I didn’t mean to! It was one mistake! Should one night cost a lifetime?!”
No one answered.
And now she knew:
Some sins carve life into “before” and “after.” And steal a sister forever.
