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 insists I’m the reason her husband left her. No, he didn’t leave her for me—but according to her, if I’d just stayed away, they’d still be happy. Of course, they could’ve gone on enjoying our shared flat in Manchester while I paid rent to strangers. But I wasn’t about to surrender what was rightfully mine.
Emily and I inherited the two-bedroom flat from our parents. Mum and Dad died when we were grown—I was 20, Emily 18. I’d been studying in London and stayed after university, while Emily remained in the family home up north.
Seven years in London left me drained, so I decided to return. My remote job meant no upheaval, but Emily still managed to shock me. We were never close, even after losing our parents. We grieved separately, calls were scarce, conversations hollow. But when I found out she’d married without telling me—no invitation, no word—it stung. She’s my sister. Yet I said nothing.
My return to Manchester and our shared flat sent Emily and her husband, Oliver, into a frenzy. They hoped I’d change my mind—hadn’t even cleared my old room, though I’d given them a month’s notice. I arrived late, so the reshuffling waited till morning.
Thus began our uneasy trio. Emily and Oliver made it clear I was intruding, but I refused to budge. The flat was half mine. I kept quiet—no music, no guests, barely leaving my room. Still, living with them was unbearable.
Emily never cleaned, and Oliver was worse. The bathroom became a swamp: damp towels (sometimes mine!) flung over the rail, splashed walls, clothes in soggy heaps. He stole my food, too. Our shopping habits clashed—Emily bought cheap in bulk; I favored quality over quantity. He’d swipe my Greek yogurt, then scoff when I objected: “What, can’t spare a bite?”
The kitchen after Emily’s cooking looked like a storm had hit—grease on the hob, sauce splattered on tiles, the floor needing a mop. Dishes piled up for days until, tired of empty cupboards, I caved and scrubbed them myself. I suspect that was the plan.
Exhausted, I suggested a cleaning rota. Emily just waved me off:
“If dirty plates bother you, wash them. You tidy up anyway. You’ve got all day—we’re at work.”
“I work too. Just from home.”
“So? You’ve still got more time.”
Arguing was pointless. I moved the clean dishes to my room, bought a mini-fridge, and fitted a lock. Only left when necessary—lest they rummage through my things.
“Ooh, better label your plates, Your Highness,” Emily sneered. “Oli, maybe we need a lock too. Who knows who’s creeping about?”
Rows became routine. It infuriated me—neither would compromise. This was my home, not some favour I’d begged. I had equal rights; Oliver had none. Yet I bit my tongue.
After one spat over the bathroom filth, I packed. Two days later, I was gone.
“Good riddance,” Emily tossed as I left.
She didn’t know I’d decided to sell my share. Two weeks later, I sent formal notice—buy me out, or I’d find another buyer. Emily rang, furious:
“Have you lost it? Why sell?”
“Because you and Oliver made it unlivable. I’ll take my half, get a mortgage. Do what you want.”
“Sell to strangers? You’ll ruin us!”
“Or sell together—split the profit. Both get mortgages, buy our own places.”
She whined they couldn’t afford it, accused me of meddling. I was done explaining: I wouldn’t live like that. She wanted the whole flat—leaving me where? Not happening.
I gave her a week to decide. Two days later, she called, breathless: she was pregnant. I congratulated her, then asked about my offer.
“Are you deaf? I’m pregnant! No bank’s giving me a mortgage now!”
I laughed. The offer stands, I said.
Another two days passed. Then, weeping, she called again. Oliver had balked at the idea of debt, packed his things, and fled to his mum’s. The pregnancy? A lie to guilt me.
Now Oliver’s filing for divorce, and Emily wails that I wrecked her marriage. “Everything was perfect before you came,” she sobs. “Our own place, no stress.”
I feel no guilt. They made my life hell. Her number’s blocked now—solicitors can handle the rest. A sister like that? I’m better off without.
