**Fifteen Years of Blindness: How My Sister Chose Illusions Over Life and Now Demands Payment**
My sister’s name is Evelyn. She’s 37, and for the past fifteen years, she’s been trapped in a world of her own delusions. We all tried to save her once. Mum and Dad pleaded, warned, even set traps of kindness to pull her from the pit. Now… Dad’s gone, Mum barely holds on, and Evelyn’s only just decided it’s time to divorce him. And, of course, she looks to us—as if we should help, support, not abandon her.
It started back in uni. Evelyn fell for a classmate, a self-absorbed “musician” named Tristan. The sort who called himself an artist but never amounted to anything. Played in some dingy band, bounced between pubs, and every night ended with a bottle in their so-called “creative circle.” We, the whole family, were horrified. Mum and Dad begged her to think it through, urged her not to rush into marriage. I tried to talk her out of it too, but she wouldn’t listen. Love, she claimed, was all that mattered.
She married him young, and from that moment—it was like a curse. Tristan refused to work, lived off her odd jobs. Thought he was too refined for “corporate slavery.” Evelyn carried it all: the house, the bills, his drunken rages. He’d hurl a mug at her, shove her in anger, but she’d excuse it—his “sensitive soul.”
When he vanished on another bender, Evelyn would run to our parents. Stayed for weeks, begged for money. We didn’t know how to reach her anymore. Dad suggested she move in, Mum’s heart broke watching her scrape by with a man who ignored both her and their little girl.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, frail, needing constant care. The doctors warned there could be complications. Tristan drank even harder then. And Evelyn? She stayed. Said she couldn’t abandon him in his pain. The little girl didn’t make it to her first birthday. Mum collapsed, her heart failing. The attacks began. Dad held on—he still wanted to save someone, anyone. But it was hopeless.
Evelyn stayed with Tristan. Years passed, she had another child—a boy. Healthy, they say. By then, I’d cut ties. Exhausted from watching her self-destruct. My husband and I lived our lives; Mum mentioned the grandson occasionally.
Then, last year, Dad died. A heart attack—too fast for the doctors. Mum broke. The attacks returned. I visit her daily, do what I can. And then, Evelyn calls. Says it’s over—she’s divorcing him. Tristan’s drinking again, refuses work, won’t pay 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 choked out.
Mum stayed silent, eyes downcast. 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 the rest of us owed her rescue.
*”Now, when Mum needs help, you remember your troubles? Where were you when we lost Dad? Where were you when we needed you? Suddenly your eyes are open?”*
Evelyn screeched:
*”If you won’t help, you’ll never see my son again!”*
Then she stormed out, slammed the door. I’d have gone after her, but Mum clutched her chest, gasping. Called an ambulance, lay pale as linen, barely breathing. Only slept near dawn. It’s Mum I ache for. The nephew, I pity. But Evelyn?
She chose this path. Traded reality for illusions. Now it’s all collapsed, and she wants someone to blame. I won’t be her lifeline anymore. I’m done.
If I see Evelyn again—I don’t know if I’ll hold back.
