**Thursday, 12th October**
I can’t take it anymore. Yesterday, I stood in the doorway of my flat, hands shaking, and shouted at my sister, “Emily, get out of my house—now!” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, but I meant every syllable.
I live in a quiet market town near Cambridge, where the morning bustle of the high street blends with the scent of fresh bread from the bakery. At forty, my life should’ve been settled—a small, orderly flat, a steady job as a hotel receptionist, peace. Instead, it’s chaos, all because of Emily and her three boys: Thomas (12), Oliver (8), and little Henry (5).
Emily’s always been the carefree one—five years younger, forever chasing “something better.” Meanwhile, I’ve been the responsible sister, working hard, scraping by after the divorce to pay off this flat, my only sanctuary. When she begged to stay with me “just a fortnight” after losing yet another rented room, I said yes. That was three months ago.
Now, my home is unrecognisable. The boys race down the hallway, shouting, knocking things over. Thomas rolls his eyes when I ask him to help. Oliver drew on the wallpaper with a marker, and Henry smears jam on everything. Emily does nothing—just scrolls on her phone or disappears “to sort things out,” leaving me to cook, clean, and play nanny.
Dirty plates pile up in the sink. Toys litter the floor. The sofa’s stained. I come home exhausted only to scrub and scold while Emily yawns, “Charlotte, don’t fuss. You’ve got the space.” *My* space. *My* life.
Yesterday broke me. I walked in to find juice spilled on the rug, the kitchen a disaster, the boys shrieking like wild things. Emily lounged on the sofa, texting. Something snapped. “Get out,” I said. Her face went pale. “Where am I supposed to go with the kids?”
I gave her a week to leave. She cried, called me heartless. Mum rang, pleading, “She’s your sister.” But where was Emily’s gratitude? Her effort? My friends say I’ve been too soft, funding her recklessness for years. Maybe they’re right.
I feel guilty—especially for the boys. But this flat is all I have. I offered to help her find a place; she spat back, “You just want rid of us.” Maybe I do. Is that so wrong?
I don’t know if Mum will forgive me. If Emily will ever take responsibility. But at forty, I need my home back—my peace, my dignity. Even if it makes me the “wicked sister,” I won’t bend. My name is Charlotte. And for once, I’m choosing myself.
