**Diary Entry**
I never imagined I’d be torn like this—between my own sister and the man I love. It feels like I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, and no matter which way I turn, someone gets hurt.
My older sister, Emily, has always been complicated. Three years my senior, she spent our childhood convinced I was the favourite. She swore Mum and Dad spoiled me—more dolls, sweets, clothes—though, truthfully, they loved us equally. It’s just that I appreciated things more, while Emily took them for granted.
I remember her snatching my toys just to see me cry, not because she wanted to play. And even as we grew, that bitterness never left.
When I met William—my now-husband—Emily only grew colder. Behind my back, she whispered to our parents that our marriage wouldn’t last. I was 22 then, William was 24, and Emily, at 25, hadn’t even a hint of a romance.
After the wedding, we moved in with William’s mother. But soon, she remarried—an Irishman—and moved abroad, leaving us her two-bed flat in Manchester. Then, a few years later, William’s grandfather passed and willed him another flat in a different part of the city. Suddenly, we had two homes.
We decided to rent one out, saving the income for our son Oliver’s education. He’s 12 now, and we know how fast time flies.
Meanwhile, Emily, as if racing to catch up, rushed into marriage with the first man she met—James. A lazy, unreliable sort who scrapes by on odd jobs. Still, she had three children with him. The four of them crammed into a tiny studio, bought with government help and our parents’ modest savings.
I’ve always pitied my nieces and nephews—shabby clothes, always hungry, forever ill. Our parents tried helping, but their pensions only stretched so far.
William and I kept the rental a secret from Emily. For nearly a year and a half, it worked. But eventually, she found out.
Then, one day, she came to me in tears:
“Charlotte, you have to understand!” she begged. “You’ve got space to spare, and we’re packed like sardines! The flat’s near that brilliant art school—Sophie dreams of dancing, and little Thomas wants music lessons! Let us stay, just for a while. Once James finds proper work, I’ll start earning too. We’ll pay something, I swear. We’re family!”
Looking at her, I felt pity—for the children—and fear, for what this might cost us.
I told William everything.
“No.” His voice was steel. “Not a chance. They’ll wreck the place, and we’ll never see a penny. James, find work? He’s hardly worked a day in his life! And your sister will just have another baby to avoid lifting a finger!”
I argued—just temporary, they’re struggling.
“Do you even believe that?” he scoffed. “Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. No. I’m already vetting new tenants.”
The next morning, Emily called:
“We’re almost packed! Just a few boxes left—we’ll be there soon!”
I clutched the phone, saying nothing. I didn’t tell her it was pointless. Didn’t say we wouldn’t let them in.
I’m terrified of upsetting Mum—her heart’s fragile. One shock could be the end.
I’m terrified of losing Emily for good—and just as terrified of wrecking my marriage.
This choice is tearing me apart.
My heart screams to help my blood. But my head—and the memory of every childhood slight—reminds me: Emily only ever takes.
And William… He’s been my rock. Built a life with me. Now he’s asking one thing: to protect what we’ve made.
So I know what I have to do, no matter how it aches.
I’ll find the strength to say no. Let Emily rage. Let her hate me. I choose my husband. My son. Our family.
But God, how it hurts—to realise your own flesh and blood could force you into a choice this cruel.
