My parents decided to sign over Gran’s flat to my sister, leaving me with nothing: “I don’t want to be selfish, but this isn’t fair.”
My life had become a fight for survival, and any hope of justice shattered one evening when my parents announced their decision. I’d counted on Gran’s inheritance to pull me out of financial ruin, but instead, they took everything from me and handed it to my sister. Their words cut like a knife, piercing my heart. Now, I don’t know how to bear the pain or the betrayal—left gutted by my own family.
My name is Emily. I live in a quiet town up north. That evening, my parents called me and my sister Charlotte to their house in Manchester. They warned us it was serious—about dividing Gran’s flat. I’d waited months for this. My husband, James, and I were barely scraping by, paying for his mother’s care. Margaret was seriously ill, couldn’t work, needed constant attention and expensive medication. We scrimped on everything—no new clothes, the cheapest food, thank God for the tinned soup in the cupboard. Sometimes, Margaret improved, and we could afford a little more, but savings? A safety net? A laughable dream.
I was certain selling Gran’s flat would be our salvation. Gran, the kindest soul, always wanted to help Charlotte and me. She was the heart of every gathering, surrounded by friends, radiating warmth. Even in her later years, she’d fret about us saving for a place. Her spacious three-bedroom flat was meant to be sold, the money split between us. After she passed, our parents took over. They spent half a year looking for a buyer, and I’d hoped my share would keep us afloat.
But that night, sat at their dining table, I heard the words that shattered my world. They weren’t selling. They were signing it over to Charlotte. *”You’d just spend it on Margaret’s care,”* they said. *”Charlotte needs the security—she’s on her own.”* I froze, tears burning. They *knew* how much we struggled—that I hadn’t bought new shoes in years, that James and I budgeted down to the last pound. But they’d decided that because I was married, I didn’t *deserve* help—Charlotte did.
I tried to hold it in, but the hurt burst out. *”Why?”* I choked. *”You know how bad it is for us!”* Mum fixed me with a stern look. *”Emily, don’t be selfish. Think of your sister. This is what’s best.”* They claimed selling now was a bad deal, that the flat was sentimental, that Charlotte *needed* it more. I sat there, numb, words failing me. When Charlotte tried to console me, I stood and walked out, deaf to her apologies. *”Mum and Dad just want what’s fair,”* she’d said. *”You’d blow through the money. The flat’s safer this way.”* Every syllable only twisted the knife deeper.
I feel *betrayed*. They call me selfish, but is it wrong to fight for my mother-in-law’s life? They see our struggle—yet they chose Charlotte, like I’m not their child too. She swears she never asked for this, but her pity feels hollow. I can’t speak to her. Can’t face my parents. The flat was my one hope—to clear debts, to breathe. Now? Nothing. And the injustice of it festers inside me.
Every night, I lie awake wondering: *How could they do this?* Two daughters, and they picked one. I don’t *want* to be selfish—but I can’t forgive. Gran wanted us *both* taken care of. They’ve robbed me of more than money—they’ve robbed me of a future. I’m terrified this bitterness will tear us apart, but how do I move on when the people who should’ve stood by me have made me feel worthless? My heart aches, and I don’t know where to find the strength to keep going. Not when the ones who should love me most have made it clear—I don’t matter.
