My name is Victoria, and I’m torn between two impossible choices—risking a rift with my sister or the man I love. My heart aches, my mind races, yet clarity remains just out of reach.
Ever since we were children, my older sister, Eleanor, treated me with bitterness. Three years my senior, she resented me, convinced our parents favoured me—more dolls, sweets, clothes. But they loved us equally. I simply found joy in small things; she took them for granted.
I remember how she’d snatch toys from me just to see me cry. Not to play, only to hurt. Years passed, but her cruelty never softened.
When I met Thomas, my now-husband, Eleanor’s coldness sharpened. Behind my back, she whispered to our parents that our marriage wouldn’t last. I was 22, Thomas 24. Eleanor was 25—still alone, no love in sight.
After we married, we lived with Thomas’s mother until she remarried and moved abroad, leaving us her two-bed flat in Manchester. Then, two years later, Thomas’s grandfather passed, bequeathing us another flat in a different part of the city.
We decided to rent one out, saving the earnings for our son Daniel’s education. He’s twelve now—time slips through our fingers.
Meanwhile, Eleanor, always chasing my shadow, rushed into marriage with the first man who glanced her way—Alex, lazy, unreliable, scraping by on odd jobs. Still, she bore him three children. The four of them crammed into a tiny studio, bought with government aid and our parents’ meagre help.
My heart broke for my nieces and nephews—threadbare clothes, hungry, always ill. Our parents sent what little they could, but their pensions barely stretched.
For nearly a year and a half, we kept the rental a secret from Eleanor. But secrets never last.
Then came the demand.
“Victoria, you *must* understand!” Eleanor’s voice trembled. “You’re hoarding a flat while we’re packed like sardines! There’s a brilliant arts school nearby—Sophia dreams of dance, Michael wants music lessons! Let us stay, just until Alex finds work. We’ll pay you *something*—we’re *family*!”
Pity warred with dread inside me—pity for the children, terror for what this could cost us.
I told Thomas everything.
“No.” His voice was steel. “Over my dead body. That lot will wreck the place, and we’ll never see a penny! Alex ‘find work’? The man’s never held a job for more than a week! And mark my words—your sister’ll pop out another baby to avoid working!”
I argued—just temporary, just until they got on their feet.
“Do you *hear* yourself?” He scoffed. “Give them an inch, they’ll take the whole street. No. I’m lining up new tenants.”
The next morning, Eleanor called.
“We’ve packed nearly everything! A few more boxes—then we’re moving in! Expect us soon!”
The phone burned in my hand. I didn’t tell her the flat wasn’t theirs. I didn’t say we’d refuse them.
I’m terrified of breaking our mother’s heart—her health is fragile. One shock could end her.
I’m afraid to lose Eleanor forever—but just as afraid to betray Thomas.
This choice is tearing me apart.
My heart screams to help my blood. But memory hisses back—Eleanor *takes*. She’s never given.
And Thomas… He’s been my rock. My shelter. The one who *built* a life with me. Now he asks one thing: *Protect what we’ve made.*
So I must do it.
I’ll find the strength to say no. Let Eleanor rage. Let her hate me. I choose my husband. My son. *Our* future.
But God, the pain of this choice—the raw, choking grief of knowing my own flesh and blood could force me to such cruelty…
