“Emily, get out of my flat right now!” I can’t stand my sister and her kids anymore.
In a quiet little town near Norwich, where the morning market buzz mixes with the smell of fresh pastries, my life at 40 has turned into chaos because of my sister. My name’s Sarah, and I live alone in my two-bedroom flat, which I struggled to pay off after my divorce. But my younger sister Emily, her three boys, and her sheer irresponsibility have pushed me to my limit. Yesterday, I stood at the door and shouted, “Get out of my flat, now!”—and now I’m not sure if I did the right thing, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.
Emily’s five years younger than me. We used to be close, despite being completely different. I’m organised, hardworking, always carrying everything on my shoulders. Emily? Flighty, always chasing some “better life.” She’s got three boys by different men: Oliver’s 12, Liam’s 8, and Noah’s 5. She lives in a rented room, scraping by with odd jobs, and I’ve always helped—money, groceries, clothes for the kids. When she asked to stay with me “just for a couple of weeks,” I couldn’t say no. That was three months ago.
My flat’s my sanctuary. After the divorce, I poured everything into it—new carpets, furniture, making it cosy. I work as a hotel receptionist, and my life’s all about order and routine. But since Emily and her kids moved in, my home’s become a madhouse. Her boys run down the hallway, shouting, breaking things, smearing food on the walls. And Emily? Instead of parenting them, she’s glued to her phone or disappears “on errands,” leaving them with me.
From day one, I knew it was a mistake. Oliver’s got a smart mouth, Liam drew on the wallpaper, and Noah smears food everywhere. They don’t listen to Emily or me—like they’re used to their mum dragging them from one bloke’s place to another, and my flat’s just another pit stop. Emily doesn’t clean up after them, doesn’t cook, doesn’t lift a finger. “Sarah, you live alone, it’s not like it’s hard for you,” she says, and I’m speechless at her nerve.
My flat’s like a student digs now. Dirty plates in the sink, toys everywhere, juice stains on the sofa. I come home from work and instead of relaxing, I’m mopping floors, cooking for five, trying to calm the kids down. Emily’s either napping or gossiping with her mates. When I ask her to help, she rolls her eyes: “God, Sarah, don’t start, I’m exhausted.” Exhausted? From what? Living off me?
Yesterday was the last straw. I walked in and didn’t recognise my own place. Her boys were tearing down the hallway, nearly knocking me over. The kitchen was a mountain of dishes, the sitting room had juice spilled all over the rug. Emily was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling her phone. I snapped: “Emily, get out of my flat right now!” She looked at me like I’d lost it: “Seriously? Where am I supposed to go with the kids?” I told her that wasn’t my problem, but inside, I was shaking. The boys froze, staring at us, and I felt bad—but I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I gave her a week to find somewhere. She burst into tears, called me heartless, said I was abandoning my own sister. But where was her consideration when she was wrecking my home? Where was the gratitude for everything I’ve done? My mates tell me, “Sarah, you’re right, stop bankrolling them.” But Mum, when she heard about the row, calls and begs: “Don’t kick Emily out, she’s got kids.” What about me? Don’t I deserve some peace?
I’m scared I’ve been too harsh. Emily and the kids are in a tough spot, and I feel guilty—especially for the boys. But I can’t set myself on fire to keep her warm. My flat’s all I have, and I won’t let it become a dumping ground for her chaos. I offered to help her find a place, but she refused: “You just want rid of us.” Maybe I do. And maybe that’s okay.
I don’t know how this week will go. Will Mum ever forgive me? Will Emily ever see she brought this on herself? Or am I just the “wicked sister” who threw her family out? But I do know one thing: I’m done being their rescuer. At 40, I want my own space—somewhere tidy, quiet, where I can breathe. Where no one tramples over me.
This is my shout for freedom. Emily might love her kids, but her carelessness is destroying my life. The boys might be innocent, but I’m not their mum. At 40, I want my home back, my peace, my self-respect. This might hurt, but I won’t back down. I’m Sarah, and I’m choosing myself—even if it breaks my sister’s heart.
