My sister and I haven’t spoken in over twenty years. And now she’s asking to move in with me… I’m lost.
My name is Emily. I’m forty, with a family—two sons, a loving husband, a cosy flat in Manchester, and a countryside cottage where we spend every summer. By all accounts, life has worked out. But now I’m facing a decision that won’t let me rest. Because it’s about my sister—a woman separated from me not just by distance, but by years of silence, grudges, and pain.
When I was five, our dad passed away. Ten years later, Mum died of cancer. I was left alone. My older sister, Charlotte, was already grown—twenty-three at the time. Before she died, Mum begged her not to abandon me. Charlotte became my legal guardian, and we stayed in our parents’ house. But calling that place a home would be a stretch.
I was a troubled teen—angry, defiant, lost. Charlotte was strict, cold, distant. She never hugged me, never said a kind word. She didn’t scold—she just looked at me with indifference. I remember crying into my pillow at night, desperate to escape that suffocating house.
When I turned seventeen, I fell in love. I brought my boyfriend over. But Charlotte’s husband—James—shouted at him and threw him out. Later, Charlotte simply said, “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” So I packed my things and left. No one stopped me. No one called. No one came looking.
It didn’t last with Tom—he wasn’t who I thought he was. We lived with his parents, scraping by. Eventually, we split up. I refused to go back to Charlotte. She was expecting a baby by then, and after everything, I knew I didn’t belong there.
I moved to Leeds, worked as a shop assistant, lived in a tiny flat. It was hard and terrifying, but I clung to every chance. Then I met Daniel—steady, kind, dependable. We married. Had two sons. Over time, we got a mortgage, bought a car, then a little cottage in the Cotswolds.
Charlotte? I hadn’t heard from her in years. Only rumours: she and James were doing well, he started a business, they had a big house, money. Then—suddenly—it all fell apart. James turned to drink, Charlotte divorced him, sold the house, split the money. She and her daughter moved into a cramped flat.
I didn’t interfere. Everyone has their own life. But months ago, a mutual friend messaged me: Charlotte’s daughter got married. And… kicked her out. Just like that. No coming back.
Then the calls started. Messages. Letters. Charlotte—my sister, who I hadn’t spoken to in twenty years. “Forgive me…”, “I’m ill…”, “I’ve nowhere to go…”, “Let me stay at the cottage, even just for a while…” I read them and don’t know what to feel. Pity? Anger? Pain? Or just numbness?
Daniel says, “Let her stay. We’re only there in summer. And she is family, after all.” I stay quiet. I think. I remember myself—seventeen, standing on the doorstep of the only home I had with a suitcase, watching as it stopped caring whether I lived or disappeared.
I forgave. Truly. Without bitterness. But letting her back in means welcoming someone who erased me from her life once. What if she leaves again? Disappears again? I don’t want to carry someone else’s fate. But I can’t turn her away.
I stand at the threshold. And I don’t know which side to choose. And my heart aches more than ever.
