My sister threw me out onto the street without a second thought.

My sister, Margaret, was always the most important person in my world. After our parents passed away, we promised each other we’d always stick together and support one another no matter what.

When my son grew up and moved to London, I stayed behind in Manchester. Then my husband and I divorced, and I lost my own place. That’s when Margaret let me stay in her flat—she was rarely home, always jetting off abroad for work.

Since I’d been working for my ex-husband’s company, I lost not just my home but my job too. It was tough—I lived off my savings at first, then took work as a cleaner. All the while, I stayed in Margaret’s flat for over two years.

Then came the day she told me I’d have to leave soon—she’d decided to rent the place out and had already spoken to an estate agent about it. I didn’t know what to say. All I managed was a weak, “Alright.” My chest tightened so much I could barely breathe, but I forced myself to stay calm and figure out what to do next. Where would I go? It was a real problem.

When Margaret walked in later, she was chirping about utility bills and her meeting with the agent. I barely heard her—my mind was spinning. That same evening, she flew off to Majorca for four months, giddy with excitement. Normally, I’d have been happy for her. Not this time.

All I could think was: *Where am I supposed to go?* Renting even a tiny flat in Manchester doesn’t come cheap, and my wages would barely cover a shed on the outskirts. I turned over every idea I had, but none of them were any good.

A month later, the doorbell rang.

A young woman stepped in, saying she was Margaret’s agent, and told me to leave immediately—new tenants were moving in that night. I tried explaining I had nowhere to go, that my sister hadn’t warned me. She wouldn’t listen. I called Margaret, but with the time difference, it was the middle of the night in Majorca.

I gathered my things and walked out. That night, I slept on a park bench. The next morning, a text came through from Margaret: *“Darling, I’m so sorry it ended this way. I’m sure you’ve found somewhere new by now.”*

It shattered my heart. How could she do this to me? My own sister.

I understood she needed the money—but why blindside me like this?

It hurt, knowing cash mattered more than family.

Eventually, I found a tiny room in an old house on the city’s edge. After a while, I landed a better job, and things eased slightly.

Now I sit in my little room like a mouse, careful not to bother anyone, terrified of losing this last foothold.

What stung most was Margaret never apologising. Later, she started calling, asking how I was. But there’s no room left for her in my heart—I just tell her I’m fine, same as anyone else.

No anger in this story, just a plea to hold close those who matter. She’s hurt, but people can forgive anything—if the apology is sincere.

Makes you think, doesn’t it? Maybe you’ve hurt someone without meaning to. Maybe now’s the time to make it right.