**Sisters Betrayed by Blood**
I always believed family was everything. That a sister would be the first to offer help when the world turned its back. But I was wrong. The cruelest betrayal didn’t come from strangers—it came from Lauren. My own sister.
We couldn’t have been more different. Me, the elder—responsible, reserved, steady. Her, the younger—impulsive, fiery, headstrong. As children, I covered for her with our parents, pulled her out of trouble, helped with schoolwork. Later, it was her degree, her job. But most of all—her home.
The flat we’d grown up in was left to us after our parents passed. Three bedrooms in central London—a valuable inheritance. The papers were in my name, but I never considered it mine alone. We agreed: Lauren could stay until she married, and I’d rent nearby to give her space. A job offer came up in the next borough, so I thought—fine. I’d move back later. After all, we were family.
But “temporarily” stretched into years. Lauren married, had a child, then divorced. Brought another man home. When I hinted at returning, she’d cut me off:
*”Oh, come on, you don’t need all that space! We’re cramped enough as it is with Jamie…”*
All delivered with false sweetness. When I confronted her outright, she suddenly said:
*”Honestly, the flat’s as much mine as yours. We both grew up here. Mum always said everything should be split equally. You just signed the papers first.”*
That cut deep. I’d never been greedy. But to hear it from Lauren?
I took her to court. A month later, I received a counterclaim. She hired a solicitor, dredged up old IOU’s, dug out witnesses. Tried to prove I’d “promised” her the flat. Even forged letters where I supposedly gave up my claim. That’s when I knew—she wasn’t my sister anymore.
The case dragged on for six months. I fought for what was obvious. Lauren smiled through it, bringing her son to court, saying, *”I’m just protecting my child’s future.”* As if I were the villain, not the boy’s own aunt.
When the ruling came in my favour, I felt no victory—only emptiness. I returned to my flat, and nothing felt like mine. The furniture, the smells, the walls. Like a stranger in a home I’d once known.
Two days later, a courier arrived with a letter from Lauren. One sentence: *”You didn’t lose to me—you lost the family.”*
And the worst part? She was right. I *had* lost my family. Not because I wanted money or square footage. But because I dared to stand my ground. And in doing so, I learned: blood doesn’t guarantee loyalty. Sometimes, a sister is the last person you can trust.
