My arrival at our shared flat shattered my sister’s life—now her husband is filing for divorce, and she blames me.
My sister Emily accuses me of driving her husband away. No, he didn’t leave her for me, but in her mind, if I had simply stayed out of their lives, they’d still be blissful. Of course, they could’ve gone on happily in our inherited flat in Manchester while I paid rent to strangers. But I wasn’t about to surrender what was rightfully mine.
We had both inherited the two-bedroom flat after our parents passed—Mum and Dad gone when we were already grown. I was twenty then, Emily eighteen. I’d moved to London for university and stayed, while Emily remained in the family home.
Seven years in the capital wore me down, the relentless rhythm of the city grinding my patience thin. I worked remotely, so employment wasn’t an issue, but Emily managed to stagger me. We were never close, not even after the funeral. Grief carved different paths for us—calls were rare, conversations shallow. But learning she’d married without a word? That stung. Not an invitation, not even a mention. She was my sister, and yet I swallowed my hurt.
My return to Manchester and the flat sparked fury in Emily and her husband, Richard. They had hoped I’d change my mind—hadn’t even cleared my old room, despite my warning a month in advance. I arrived late, so the furniture stayed as it was until morning.
And so, the three of us began sharing the space. Emily and Richard made it clear I was an intruder, but I refused to care. It was my home too. I kept quiet—no music, no guests, barely leaving my room. Yet living with them was unbearable.
Emily was slovenly; Richard worse. The bathroom became a swamp after him—muddy clothes on the tiles, water splashed up the walls, my towel snatched and left damp on the hamper. He stole my food. Our shopping habits differed—she bought in bulk, cheap and cheerful; I preferred less but better. Richard would help himself to my yoghurt, shrugging when I protested, asking if I was really so petty.
The kitchen after Emily’s cooking looked like a storm had passed—grease on the hob, sauce splattered on the apron, sometimes the floor needing a mop. Dishes piled for days until I, tired of empty cupboards, scrubbed them myself. I suspect that was their design.
Exhausted, I suggested a cleaning rota. Emily scoffed.
*“If dirty plates bother you, wash them. You tidy up after yourself anyway. You’ve got all the time in the world—we’re at work.”*
*“I work too. Just from home.”*
*“So? Still more time than us.”*
Arguing was futile. So I took my clean dishes to my room, bought a mini fridge, and fitted a lock. I barely stepped out—kept them from rifling through my things.
*“Oh, darling, best initialise your cutlery—wouldn’t want it straying!”* Emily sneered. *“Rich, maybe we should get a lock too. You never know who’s lurking.”*
The bickering became constant. It infuriated me that neither would compromise. This was my home, not some imposition! I had equal rights—Richard had fewer. Still, I avoided escalation.
After another row over the filthy bathroom, I packed my things. Two days later, I left.
*“Good riddance,”* Emily spat.
She didn’t know I’d decided to sell my share. Two weeks later, I sent a formal letter offering her first refusal—or I’d find another buyer. She rang in a rage.
*“Have you lost your mind? Why sell?”*
*“Because you and your husband made my home unlivable. I’ll sell, take a mortgage, and you can do as you please.”*
*“To strangers? That’ll ruin us!”*
*“We could sell together—get more. Both take mortgages, buy our own places.”*
Emily insisted they couldn’t afford it, accused me of meddling. I was tired of explaining I couldn’t live like that. She wanted the whole flat—was I to wander homeless? Not a chance.
I gave her a week to decide, warning I’d seek buyers after. Two days later, she called claiming she was pregnant. I congratulated her, then asked if she’d considered my offer.
*“Are you deaf? I’m pregnant! What mortgage? Strangers can’t live here—we’ll have a baby!”*
I laughed. The offer to sell outright still stood, I told her.
Two days after that, she called sobbing. Richard, hearing of the mortgage, had packed his bags and fled to his mother’s. The pregnancy? A lie to guilt me.
Now Richard’s filing for divorce, and Emily wails that I’ve destroyed her marriage. Apparently, before I returned, everything was perfect—their own flat, no troubles. I feel no guilt. They made my life hell first. I’ve blocked her number—let the solicitors handle it now. I’ve no sister left.
