**Fifteen Years of Blindness: How My Sister Traded Her Life for Illusions and Now Demands Reckoning**
My sister’s name is Emily. She’s 37, and for the past fifteen years, she’s been trapped in her own delusions. Once, we all tried to save her. Mum and Dad pleaded, begged, set traps of care to pull her out of that pit. But now… Dad’s gone, Mum’s barely holding on, and Emily’s only now decided it’s time for a divorce. And of course, she looks to us with hope—*help me, stand by me, don’t abandon me.*
It started back in her university days. Emily fell hard for a self-absorbed “musician” named Oliver from her class. The sort who called himself an artist but never really became anything. Played in some grubby underground band, drifted between dodgy pubs, and every night in his so-called *creative circle* ended with a bottle. We were horrified. Mum and Dad begged her to think it over, urged her not to rush into marriage. I tried to talk sense into her too, but she wouldn’t listen. Love, she said, was all that mattered.
She married him young. And from then on—it was like a curse. Oliver refused to work, lived off her odd jobs. Thought himself too refined for “office drudgery.” Emily carried it all: the rent, the bills, his drunken rages. He’d hurl a mug at her, shove her away in anger, and she’d excuse it as *his sensitive soul.*
When he’d vanish on another bender, Emily would turn up at our parents’. Stayed for weeks, begging for money. We ran out of ways to reach her. Dad offered her a way out; Mum could barely stand seeing her waste away with a man who barely noticed her—or their frail little girl.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, weak, needing constant care. Doctors warned there could be complications. Oliver just drank harder. And Emily stayed. Said she couldn’t abandon him in *his* hardship—he was suffering too, she claimed. The girl didn’t live a year. Mum collapsed after that. Heart problems. Attacks. Dad held on—tried to save *someone,* at least. But it was hopeless.
Emily stayed with Oliver. Years passed, she had another child—a son. Healthy, they say. By then, I’d stopped speaking to her. Worn out. Tired of watching someone drown on dry land. My husband and I lived our lives; Mum mentioned the grandson now and then.
Then Dad died last year. A heart attack—doctors couldn’t save him. Mum crumbled, her attacks returned. I visit daily, do what I can. And then—Emily calls. Says she’s done, wants a divorce. Oliver’s drinking again, won’t work, refuses child support. Now *she* needs to survive. And of course, she expects our help.
*”I’m exhausted, I’ve got a child to raise, no money. I want a normal life,”* she forced out.
Mum stayed silent, eyes down. But I—I couldn’t hold back. Laid it all out: how we’d tried to help, how she’d ignored us, lived in a fantasy where she was the victim and we were meant to rescue her.
*”Now, when Mum needs *you*, suddenly you’ve got problems? Where were you when we were burying Dad? Where were you when we begged you to listen? Now your eyes are open?”*
Emily shrieked: *”If you won’t help, you’ll never see your nephew again!”*
Then she was gone—out the door, slamming it behind her. I’d have chased her, but Mum clutched her chest again. Called an ambulance, lay there pale as sheets, barely breathing. Didn’t sleep till dawn.
My heart breaks for Mum. For my nephew. But not for Emily.
She chose this. Traded reason for fairy tales. Now it’s all collapsed, and she needs someone to blame. I’m done being her lifeguard.
If I see her again—I don’t know if I’ll hold my tongue.
*Lesson learned: Some people drown not because they can’t swim, but because they refuse to reach for the shore.*
