Fifteen Years of Blindness: How My Sister Traded Her Life for Illusions, Now Demands Reckoning
My sister’s name is Eleanor. She is thirty-seven now, and for fifteen long years, she has been shackled by her own delusions. We all tried to save her once. Mum and Dad pleaded, begged, laid traps of kindness to pull her from the pit. But now… Dad is gone, Mum barely holds on, and Eleanor, only now, has decided it is time to divorce. And, of course, she turns to us with hope in her eyes—help me, stand by me, do not abandon me.
It began in her university days. Eleanor fell for a fellow student, a self-obsessed “musician” named Tobias. The sort who called himself an artist but never amounted to anything. He played in some dingy underground band, drifted between pubs, and every night with his so-called creative crowd ended with a bottle. Our family was horrified. Our parents begged Eleanor to reconsider, urged her not to rush into marriage. I, too, tried to talk sense into her, but she would not hear it. Love, she swore, mattered more than anything.
She married him young. And from then on—it was as though a curse had settled upon her. Tobias never worked, living off the scraps of her odd jobs. He thought himself too refined for “office drudgery.” And Eleanor bore it all: the house, the bills, his drunken rages. He might hurl a mug at her, shove her away in anger, yet she excused it all as his “sensitive soul.”
When he vanished into another drinking binge, Eleanor ran to our parents. She would stay with them for weeks, asking for money. We no longer knew how to reach her. Dad offered her a place to live; Mum’s heart ached watching her scrape by in poverty with a man who cared nothing for her or their tiny daughter.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, frail, in need of constant care. When the doctors warned of complications, Tobias only drank harder. And Eleanor—she stayed. She claimed she could not abandon him in his struggles. He, she insisted, suffered just as much. The little girl lived less than a year. That was when Mum took to her bed, her heart faltering, her strength gone. Dad still stood firm—he wanted to save someone, anyone. But in vain.
Eleanor stayed with Tobias. Years passed. She bore a second child—a boy. A healthy lad, I’m told. By then, I no longer spoke to her. I was weary. Tired of witnessing another’s ruin. My husband and I carried on with our lives, Mum whispering snippets about her grandson.
Then, last year, Dad died. The doctors could not stop it—his heart gave way. Mum crumbled, her pains returning. I visit her daily, do what I can. And then—Eleanor calls. Says she’s had enough, she’s divorcing him. Tobias drinks again, refuses work, won’t pay a penny for the boy. She needs to survive. And of course, she expects our help.
*”I’m exhausted. I have a child to raise and no money. I just want a decent life.”*
Mum stayed silent, her eyes downcast. But I—I could not hold my tongue. I laid it all bare: how we had tried to help her, how she had ignored us, lived in a world of her own making. Where she played the martyr, and the rest of us were meant to be her saviours.
*”Now, when Mum needs help, you remember your troubles? Where were you when we buried Dad? Where were you when we were breaking? Now, suddenly, you see the truth?”*
Eleanor shrieked:
*”If you won’t help, you’ll never see my son again!”*
With that, she stormed out, slamming the door. I might have chased her—but Mum clutched her chest, gasping. I called an ambulance, watched her lie there, pale as linen, until dawn, when sleep finally took her. My heart aches for Mum. I pity the boy. But not Eleanor.
She chose this path. She traded reason for folly. Now that it has all collapsed, she searches for someone to blame. And I—I refuse to be her rescuer any longer. I am done.
If I see her again—I do not know if I can hold my tongue.
