My arrival at our shared flat shattered my sister’s life—or so she claims. Now her husband is filing for divorce, and she blames me entirely.
My sister, Emily, insists I’m the reason her husband left her. No, he didn’t leave her for me—but she swears if I’d just stayed away, they’d still be blissfully happy. Of course, they could have gone on enjoying their lives in our shared flat in Manchester while I rented elsewhere, lining some stranger’s pockets. But I wasn’t about to surrender what was rightfully mine.
Emily and I inherited the two-bedroom flat from our parents. They passed when we were already grown—I was twenty, she eighteen. I’d been studying in London and stayed after university, while Emily remained in our childhood home.
Seven years I spent in the capital before the chaos wore me down and I decided to return. My work was remote, so no job stood in my way. But Emily managed to shock me. We’d never been close, not even after our parents’ deaths. Each of us grieved alone; calls were sparse, conversations shallow. Yet her marriage was a blow. She never breathed a word of it—no invitation, no mention. It stung. She was my sister. Still, I said nothing.
My return to Manchester and our shared flat sparked outrage. Emily and her husband, James, had hoped I’d change my mind. They hadn’t even cleared my old room, though I’d given them a month’s notice. I arrived late, and the furniture stayed where it was until morning.
Thus began our uneasy cohabitation. Emily and James made it clear I was an intruder, but I refused to care. The flat was half mine. I kept quiet—no music, no guests, barely leaving my room. Yet living with them grew unbearable.
Emily never bothered with tidying, and James was worse. The bathroom became a swamp after him: muddy clothes piled on the floor, splashes on the walls, sometimes even my towel flung damp over the hamper. He stole my food, too. We shopped differently—Emily bought cheap and in bulk; I preferred less but better. Yet James would swipe my yoghurt and, when challenged, smirked as if I were petty for minding.
The kitchen after Emily’s cooking looked storm-swept—grease stains on the hob, the apron splattered, the floor sometimes needing a mop. Days-old dishes piled up until I, tired of empty cupboards, washed them myself. I suspect that was their plan.
Exhausted by the mess, I suggested a cleaning rota. Emily just scoffed.
“If dirty plates bother you, wash them. You tidy up after yourself anyway. You’ve got loads of time, while we work proper jobs.”
“I work too—just from home,” I retorted.
“Hardly the same. You’ve got all day.”
Arguing was futile. So I took clean plates to my room, bought a mini fridge, and fitted a lock. I stayed in, keeping them from rummaging through my things.
“Oh, princess, best label your china, lest you forget it in the kitchen!” Emily sneered. “James, maybe we ought to get a lock too. Never know who’s lurking.”
Arguments became daily. What infuriated me most was their refusal to compromise. This was my home, not some imposition. My rights matched Emily’s; James had none at all. Yet I avoided conflict where I could.
After one too many rows over the state of the bathroom, I packed my bags. Two days later, I left.
“That’s one less headache,” Emily muttered.
Little did she know I’d decided to sell my share. A fortnight later, I sent a formal letter offering her first refusal, warning that otherwise, I’d find another buyer. She rang in a rage.
“Have you lost your mind? Why sell now?”
“Because you and James made my home unliveable. Sell my share, take a mortgage—you do what you want with your half.”
“Sell to strangers? You’ll ruin everything!”
“We could sell together. Split the profits, both take mortgages, buy our own places.”
She swore they couldn’t afford it, demanded to know why I was meddling. I was tired of explaining I couldn’t live under their roof. She’d hoped to claim the whole flat while I drifted rootless. Not a chance.
I gave her a week to decide. Two days later, she rang claiming she was pregnant. I congratulated her, then asked if she’d considered my offer.
“You can’t be serious! I’m pregnant! No bank would lend to us now, and we can’t live with strangers—there’ll be a baby!”
I laughed. The offer to sell together still stood, I reminded her.
Two days after that, she called in tears. James, it turned out, had balked at the idea of a mortgage, packed his things, and fled to his mother’s. And the pregnancy? A lie, meant to soften me.
Now James is filing for divorce, and Emily weeps that I’ve destroyed her marriage. Apparently, before I returned, their life was perfect: their own flat, no burdens. I feel no guilt. They made my life hell first. Her number’s blocked now—let the solicitors handle the rest. I’ve no need for a sister like her.
