I have a sister I no longer wish to have anything to do with. Our bond cracked long ago, and now I see it clearly—we’re too different to ever understand each other. Her name is Emily, and she lives in a grand mansion on the outskirts of London. Her house has everything: spacious rooms, the latest gadgets, even a private pool in the garden. Emily earned it all herself—first working abroad, then starting her own business in England. She’s a solicitor, and a successful one, I’ll admit. But success hasn’t made her someone you’d want to talk to.
My name is Charlotte, five years younger than Emily. We grew up together in a small town where everyone knew each other. Our parents were ordinary people—Mum taught at the local school, Dad worked at the factory. As children, we were close, sharing secrets and dreaming of the future. But as she grew older, Emily changed. She was always ambitious, craving more than our little town could offer. After school, she left to study in the capital, then moved abroad. I was proud of her, convinced she’d achieve great things while staying kind. I was wrong.
When Emily returned years later, she was a different woman—cold, condescending. She spoke to me as if I were a distant acquaintance, oblivious to her “high standards of living.” Her words often sounded like accusations: why wasn’t I striving for more? Why was I living “so plainly”? But I never wanted to compete. I have my own happiness: I work at a library, married to William, with two children. We’re not wealthy, but we’re content. I love my job, our quiet family evenings, walks with the kids. To Emily, though, all of it must seem dull and insignificant.
Once, I invited her to my daughter’s birthday party, hoping to mend things. Emily came but acted as if she were doing us a favour by showing up. She criticised everything—the food, our modest home, even how we raised our children. She gave little Sophie an expensive tablet but added, “Maybe this’ll teach you something useful.” I was stunned. William tried to lighten the mood, but Emily just sighed, glancing at her watch. That night, I knew—I didn’t want to see her again.
The last straw was our mother. When she fell seriously ill and needed surgery, I took care of her, juggled leave, found specialists. Emily knew, yet she never called or visited. Just a text: “Send the bill, I’ll transfer the money.” I never asked for her money—I wanted her there, by Mum’s side. But for Emily, everything seems to be measured in pounds. Mum recovered but never got that call from her eldest daughter. It broke her heart, and it showed me plainly what my sister had become.
Now Emily lives her life, and I live mine. Sometimes she texts, invites me to her mansion, but I refuse. I won’t sit through lectures or watch her flaunt her wealth. I don’t need her money or gifts. I treasure my family, my children, our simple joys. Maybe she thinks I’ve failed—fine. I know happiness isn’t found in pools or flashy cars.
Sometimes I miss the Emily I remember from childhood. But that girl is gone. In her place stands a woman who’s forgotten what family means. I don’t hold a grudge, but I won’t keep her in my life either. I have William, my children, my friends—the ones who love me as I am. Let Emily stay in her perfect world. Maybe one day, she’ll realise what she’s lost.
