**Diary Entry**
My sister Emily blames me for her husband leaving her. No, he didn’t leave her for me, but in her eyes, if I’d just stayed away, they’d have lived happily ever after. Of course, they could’ve carried on enjoying life in our shared flat in Manchester while I paid rent to strangers elsewhere. But I wasn’t about to surrender what was rightfully mine.
Emily and I inherited a two-bedroom flat from our parents. Mum and Dad passed when we were already adults—I was 20, Emily 18. I’d been studying in London and stayed after university, while Emily remained in the family home in Manchester.
Seven years in London wore me down, and I decided to return home. Working remotely meant no upheaval in my career, but Emily managed to blindside me. We were never close, even after losing our parents. Grief took us in different directions; calls were rare, conversations shallow. But her getting married without a word stung. No invitation, no mention. She’s my sister, yet I swallowed my hurt in silence.
My arrival in Manchester and moving back into our shared flat sent Emily and her husband, Simon, into a tailspin. They’d hoped I’d change my mind and hadn’t cleared my old room, despite my month’s notice. I arrived late, so furniture shuffling had to wait till morning.
Thus began our uneasy coexistence. Emily and Simon made it clear I was intruding, but I refused to budge—it was my home too. I kept to myself: no music, no guests, barely leaving my room. Yet living with them became unbearable.
Emily couldn’t be bothered to clean, and Simon was worse. The bathroom was a swamp after him—dirty clothes on the floor, splatters on the walls, my towel often snatched and left damp on the hamper. He’d pinch my food, too. Our shopping habits differed: Emily bought cheap and bulk, I preferred less but better quality. Simon would swipe my Greek yoghurt, then act offended when I called him out.
Emily’s cooking left the kitchen looking storm-hit—splattered hob, stained apron, even the floor needing a mop. Dirty dishes piled up for days until I caved and washed them myself. She’d counted on that, I realised.
I proposed a cleaning rota, but Emily brushed me off: *”If the mess bothers you, clean it. You’ve got all the time in the world—we’re slammed at work.”*
*”I work too. Just from home,”* I shot back.
*”Still more flexible hours.”*
Arguing was pointless. So I moved my clean dishes to my room, bought a mini-fridge, and fitted a lock. I’d only leave when necessary, guarding my things.
*”Oh, la-di-da, better label your plates if you leave them out!”* Emily sneered. *”Simon, maybe we need a lock too—who knows who’ll sneak about?”*
Rows became daily. It infuriated me that neither would compromise. I’d returned to *my* home, not imposed on theirs! My rights were equal, Simon’s lesser. Still, I avoided escalation.
After a final blow-up over the bathroom filth, I packed up. Two days later, I was gone.
*”Good riddance,”* Emily muttered.
She didn’t know I’d decided to sell my share. Two weeks later, I sent a formal offer: buy me out, or I’d find another buyer. She rang, furious:
*”Have you lost it? Selling the flat?”*
*”You and Simon made it unliveable. I’ll sell, get a mortgage, and you can do the same.”*
*”To strangers? That’ll ruin us!”*
*”Or we sell together, split the profit, both get mortgages.”*
Emily insisted they couldn’t afford repayments, demanded to know why I was meddling. I was done explaining. She wanted the whole flat while I drifted? No chance.
I gave her a week to decide, warning I’d list my share otherwise. Two days later, she called claiming she was pregnant. I congratulated her, then asked about the offer.
*”Are you heartless? I’m pregnant! No bank’ll approve a mortgage now—and we can’t live with strangers!”*
I laughed. The joint sale offer still stood.
Another two days passed. Then Emily called, sobbing. Simon, upon hearing “mortgage,” had packed up and moved to his mum’s. The pregnancy? A lie to guilt-trip me.
Now he’s filing for divorce, and Emily wails that I’ve destroyed her marriage. *”Everything was perfect before you came back—our own place, no stress.”* I feel no guilt. They made *my* life hell. I’ve blocked her number—let solicitors handle the rest. I’ve no sister left.
