Fifteen Years of Blindness: How My Sister Traded Life for Illusions and Now Demands Reckoning
My sister’s name is Emily. She’s 37, and for fifteen years now, she’s been trapped in her own delusions. Once, we all tried to save her. Mum and Dad begged, pleaded, set traps of love to pull her out of the pit. But now… Dad’s gone, Mum barely holds on, and Emily’s only just decided it’s time for a divorce. And of course, she looks to us with hope—help me, support me, don’t abandon me.
It started back in university. Emily fell hard for a self-obsessed “musician” named Timothy from her class. He was the sort who called himself an artist but never really became anything. Played in some underground band, drifted between dodgy pubs, and every night in their “creative circle” ended with a bottle. Our whole family was horrified. Mum and Dad begged Emily to think twice, warned her not to rush into marriage. I tried to talk her out of it too, but she wouldn’t listen. Love, she said, mattered more than anything.
She married him young. And from then on—it was like a curse. Timothy refused to work, lived off her odd jobs. Thought himself too refined for “corporate slavery.” Emily carried it all: the house, the bills, his drunken rages. He’d hurl a mug at her, shove her away in anger, but she excused it as “his fragile soul.”
When he vanished on another binge, Emily would run to our parents. Stayed for weeks, begged for money. We didn’t know how to reach her anymore. Dad offered her a place to stay; Mum ached watching her scrape by with a man who barely noticed her—or their little girl.
Yes, they had a daughter. Sickly, frail, in need of constant care. The doctors warned there could be complications. Timothy drank harder then. And Emily stayed. Said she couldn’t abandon him in his pain. The girl lived less than a year. Mum collapsed with heart trouble after that—attacks came regularly. Dad held on, desperate to save at least Emily. But nothing worked.
She stayed with Timothy. Years passed. She had another child—a son. They say he’s healthy. By then, I’d stopped speaking to her. Too tired. Too sick of watching someone self-destruct. My husband and I built our own life. Mum mentioned the boy sometimes.
Then Dad died last year. The doctors couldn’t stop it—a heart attack. Mum crumbled; the attacks came back. I visit her daily, do what I can. And then—Emily calls. Says it’s over, she’s divorcing him. Timothy’s drinking again, refusing work, won’t pay child support. 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 down. But I—I couldn’t stay quiet. 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 everyone else had to save her.
“Now, when Mum needs help, you remember you have problems? Where were you when we needed you to listen? Where were you when we lost Dad? Only now your eyes are open?”
Emily shrieked:
“If you won’t help, you’ll never see my son again!”
With that, she stormed out, slamming the door. I’d have gone after her, but Mum clutched her chest again. Called an ambulance, lay there pale as a sheet, barely breathing. Only slept at dawn. My heart breaks for Mum. I ache for my nephew. But not for Emily.
She chose this path. Traded real help for illusions. Now it’s all collapsed, and she’s hunting for someone to blame. But I’m done being her rescuer. I’m tired.
If I see Emily again—I don’t know if I’ll hold back.
