**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 its back. But I was wrong. The deepest betrayal didn’t come from strangers—it came from Eleanor. My own sister.
We couldn’t have been more different. Me, the elder—serious, composed, steady. Her, the younger—headstrong, impulsive. As kids, I covered for her with our parents, pulled her out of scrapes, helped with homework. Later, it was her diploma, her job. But the biggest thing? Her home.
The flat we grew up in was left to us after Mum and Dad passed. Three bedrooms in central London—a valuable inheritance. The deeds were in my name, but I never considered it mine alone. We agreed: Eleanor would live there until she married, and I’d rent nearby to give her space. A job offer came up in Manchester, and I thought, *Fine. I’ll come back later. That’s what family does.*
But “temporary” stretched into years. Eleanor married, had a son, divorced. Brought another man home. When I hinted at returning, she’d cut me off:
*”Don’t be silly, it’s too much space for you! We’re cramped as it is with the baby…”*
All delivered with false sweetness. Then, when I pressed her outright, she dropped it:
*”Honestly, the flat’s as much mine as yours. We both grew up here. Mum always said everything should be fair. You just got to the paperwork first.”*
That stung. I’d never been greedy. But to hear it—from *her*?
I took her to court. A month later, a summons arrived—a counterclaim. She’d hired a solicitor, dug up old IOUs, even produced witnesses. Tried to prove I’d “promised” her the flat. Forged letters, claiming I’d renounced my share. That’s when I knew—she wasn’t my sister anymore.
The case dragged on for six months. I fought for what was obvious. Eleanor sat there, smiling, bringing her boy to court. *”I’m just protecting my child’s future,”* she’d say. As if I were some villain, not his aunt.
When the ruling came in my favour, I felt no triumph. Just hollow victory. I returned to *my* flat—and nothing was familiar. The furniture, the smells, the walls. Like a stranger in the home I’d once known.
Two days later, a courier arrived. A letter. From Eleanor. One line: *”You didn’t lose to me—you lost the family.”*
And the cruelest 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 that moment, I learned: blood doesn’t guarantee loyalty. Sometimes, a sister is worse than a foe.
