**Diary Entry**
My sister, Emily, blames me for her husband leaving her. No, he didn’t leave her for me, but in her words, if I’d just stayed away, they’d have been happy. Of course, they could’ve gone on enjoying life in our shared flat in Manchester while I rented somewhere else, lining a stranger’s pockets. But I wasn’t about to surrender what was rightfully mine.
Emily and I inherited our parents’ two-bedroom flat. Mum and Dad passed when we were already grown—I was twenty, Emily eighteen. I went off to study in London and stayed after graduation, while Emily remained in our childhood home in Manchester.
Seven years I spent in London, but the chaos of the city wore me down. I decided to come home. Working remotely meant I didn’t have to worry about finding a new job. But Emily managed to shock me. We were never close, even after losing our parents. We grieved separately—phone calls were rare, conversations shallow. Then, out of nowhere, she got married. Didn’t breathe a word to me, didn’t invite me. It stung. She’s my sister. But I swallowed my hurt and said nothing.
When I arrived back in Manchester, my return to our shared flat sent Emily and her husband, James, into a frenzy. They’d hoped I’d change my mind and hadn’t even cleared my old room, despite my month’s notice. I turned up late in the evening, so the reshuffling had to wait till morning.
That marked the start of our unbearable three-way living arrangement. Emily and James made it painfully clear I was an intrusion. But I refused to budge—it was my home too. I kept to myself: no loud music, no guests, barely stepping out of my room. Yet living with them was impossible.
Emily never lifted a finger to clean, and James was worse. The bathroom became a swamp after he used it—dirty clothes on the floor, water splashed across the walls, damp towels (sometimes mine!) tossed anywhere but the laundry basket. He’d help himself to my food without asking. We had opposite approaches to groceries—Emily bought cheap and in bulk, I spent a bit more for quality. James would nick my yoghurts, then act baffled when I called him out—“What, you can’t spare one?”
The kitchen after Emily cooked looked like a bomb had hit—crumbs everywhere, stains on the hob, the floor often needing a mop. Dishes piled up for days until I caved and scrubbed them myself. I think they counted on that.
I quickly grew tired of it and suggested a rota for cleaning shared spaces. Emily just scoffed:
“If dirty plates bother you, wash them. You tidy up after yourself anyway. You’ve got all this free time; we’re at work all day.”
“I work too—just from home,” I shot back.
“So? You still have more flexibility.”
Arguing was pointless. So I took my clean dishes to my room, bought a mini fridge, and fitted a lock on my door. I barely stepped out, giving them no chance to rifle through my things.
“Oh, look at Her Majesty! Best label your plates in case you forget them in the kitchen,” Emily sneered. “James, maybe we should get a lock too—who knows who else might wander in.”
The bickering never stopped. What infuriated me most was their refusal to compromise. This was my home—I wasn’t intruding! I had just as much right to be there, and James had even less. Still, I avoided starting fights.
After one final row over the state of the bathroom, I packed my bags. Two days later, I moved out.
“Good riddance,” Emily muttered as I left.
What she didn’t know was that I’d decided to sell my share of the flat. Two weeks later, I sent her a formal letter offering her first refusal, warning that if she didn’t buy me out, I’d find someone else. She rang me, furious:
“Have you lost your mind? Why would you sell?”
“Because you and James made living there impossible. I’ll get my share, put it toward a mortgage, and you can do what you like.”
“Sell to strangers? It’ll ruin everything!” she shrieked.
“Or we sell together, split the profit, and both get mortgages on our own places.”
Emily insisted they couldn’t afford it—why was I meddling in their lives? I was tired of explaining that living under the same roof with them was hell. She wanted the whole flat for herself—was I supposed to drift forever? Not a chance.
I gave her a week to decide, warning that after that, I’d start looking for buyers. Two days later, she called claiming she was pregnant. I congratulated her and asked if she’d thought over my offer.
“Are you serious? I’m pregnant! How can we afford a mortgage? And strangers living here—we’ll have a baby!”
I laughed. The offer to sell the whole flat still stood, I told her.
Another two days passed before Emily called again, sobbing. Turns out, when James heard about the possible mortgage, he panicked. Said he wasn’t ready, packed his things, and moved back in with his mum. As for the pregnancy? A lie, meant to guilt me.
Now James is filing for divorce, and Emily wails that I destroyed her marriage. Apparently, before I returned, everything was perfect—their own place, no worries. I don’t feel guilty. They made my life miserable first. I’ve blocked her number—the solicitor can handle things now. I don’t need a sister like that.
