**Sisters Betrayed by Blood**
I always believed family was everything. That a sister would be the first to reach out when the world turned its back. Apparently, I was wrong. The cruelest betrayal didn’t come from strangers. It came from Laura. My own sister.
We couldn’t have been more different. Me—the older one, practical, reserved, steady. Her—the younger, impulsive, with a temper. Growing up, I covered for her with our parents, bailed her out of scrapes, helped with homework. Later—with her degree, her job. And most of all, with housing.
The flat we grew up in was left to us after our parents passed. Three bedrooms in central London—prime property. The papers were in my name, but I never considered it mine alone. Laura and I agreed: she’d live there until she married, and I’d rent nearby to give her space. At the time, I’d landed a good job just across the city, so it made sense. I’d move back eventually. Family, after all.
But “temporarily” stretched into years. Laura married, had a child, then divorced. Brought home another man. Whenever I hinted at returning, she cut me off:
“Oh, come on, it’s too much space for just you! We’re crammed in here as it is with the little one…”
All delivered with sickly sweetness. When I finally asked outright, she dropped the act:
“Well, technically, the flat’s half mine, too. We both grew up here. Mum always said everything should be equal. You just signed the papers first.”
That stung. I was never greedy. But to hear it—from *Laura*?
I took her to court. A month later, I got a summons—a counterclaim. She hired a solicitor. Dug up old IOUs, roped in witnesses. Tried to prove I’d “promised” to let her keep the flat. Even faked letters where I supposedly gave up my share. That’s when I knew—my sister was gone.
The case dragged on for six months. I argued the obvious. Laura smiled through it, showing up with her son, saying, “I’m just protecting his future.” As if I were the villain, not the boy’s aunt.
When the ruling came in my favour, I didn’t feel relief. Just emptiness. I moved back into the flat—and nothing felt like home. The furniture, the smells, even the walls. Like a guest in my own past.
Two days later, a courier arrived. A letter from Laura. One sentence: *“You didn’t lose to me—you lost your family.”*
And the worst part? She was right. I *had* lost my family. Not because I wanted money or space, but because I dared to stand my ground. That’s when I learned: blood doesn’t guarantee loyalty. Sometimes, the enemy is closer than you think—right under your own roof.
