**Sisters, Betrayed by Blood**
I always believed family was my anchor, that a sister would be the first to reach out when the world turned away. But I was wrong. The bitterest betrayal didn’t come from strangers—it came from Eleanor. My own sister.
We couldn’t have been more different. Me—the elder—serious, measured, steady. Her—the younger—wild and reckless. Growing up, I shielded her from our parents’ scolding, pulled her out of scrapes, helped with homework. Later, with her degree, her job. But most of all—with a home.
The flat where we’d both been raised was left to us after our parents passed. Three bedrooms in central London—a costly inheritance. The deeds were in my name, but I never considered it mine alone. We agreed: Eleanor could stay until she married, while I’d rent nearby to give her space. A job offer had come up in Greenwich, and I thought—fine, let it be. I’d return later. Family, after all.
But “temporarily” stretched into years. Eleanor married, had a son, divorced. Brought home another man. When I hinted at returning, she’d cut me off—
*”Oh, come off it, you don’t need all that space! We’re cramped enough as it is…”*
All wrapped in false sweetness. Then, when I pressed her, she dropped it—
*”Honestly, the flat’s as much mine as yours. We both grew up here. Mum always said things should be fair. You just got to the paperwork first.”*
That stung. I’d never been greedy. But to hear it—from *Eleanor*?
I took her to court. A month later, the summons came—a counterclaim. She’d hired a solicitor. Dug up old IOU slips, lined up witnesses. Tried to prove I’d “promised” her the flat. Even faked letters where I’d supposedly signed it away. That’s when I knew—she wasn’t my sister anymore.
The case dragged on six months. I argued the obvious. Eleanor smiled, brought her son along, parroted, *”I’m just protecting my child’s future.”* As if I were some villain, not the boy’s own aunt.
When the ruling came in my favour, I felt no joy. Just hollowed out. I stepped back into my flat—and nothing was mine. The furniture, the smells, the walls. Like a visitor in the place I’d once called home.
Two days later, a courier arrived. A letter. From Eleanor. One line: *”You didn’t lose me—you lost the family.”*
And the cruelest part? She was right. I *had* lost my family. Not because I’d wanted money or square footage. But because I’d dared to stand my ground. And in that, I learned—blood doesn’t bind. Sometimes, a sister cuts deeper than any stranger.
