**Diary Entry**

My sister didn’t hesitate to throw me out onto the street.

My sister, Margaret, was always the most important person in the world to me. After our parents passed away, we promised each other we’d always help and support one another.

When my son grew up, he moved to London, and I stayed behind in Manchester. Then my husband and I divorced, and I lost my home.

That’s when Margaret let me stay in her flat—though she was rarely there, always jetting off abroad.

Since I’d worked at my ex-husband’s company, I was left not just homeless but jobless too. Times were tough at first; I lived off savings before finding work as a housekeeper. By then, I’d been living in Margaret’s place for over two years.

Then came the day she told me I’d have to leave soon—she’d decided to rent the flat out and had even spoken to an agent.

I didn’t know what to say. The only word I managed was, *”Fine.”* My chest tightened so much I could barely breathe. Still, I had to steady myself and think—where would I go? What would I do? It was a nightmare.

When Margaret came home, she chirped about utility bills and an agent she was meeting soon. I couldn’t focus—my head was spinning. That same evening, she flew off to Ibiza for four months, giddy with excitement. Normally, I’d be happy for her—but not this time.

Only one thought raced through my mind: *Where on earth will I live?* Renting even a studio in Manchester costs a fortune, and my wages would barely cover a shed on the outskirts. I turned over every option, but nothing made sense.

A month later, the doorbell rang.

A young woman stepped in, claiming to be my sister’s agent. She told me to leave immediately—new tenants were moving in that night. I begged her to listen—I had nowhere to go, Margaret hadn’t warned me—but she wouldn’t hear it. I tried calling Margaret, but with the time difference, it was the middle of the night in Ibiza.

I grabbed my things and stepped outside. That night, I slept on a park bench. In the morning, a text arrived from Margaret: *”Darling, I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m sure you’ve found somewhere new by now.”*

Her words shattered my heart. How could she do this to me? My own sister!

I understood she needed money—what I couldn’t grasp was why she’d blindsided me.

The worst part wasn’t the eviction—it was realising money mattered more to her than family.

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

Now, I sit in my cramped little room like a mouse, careful not to disturb anyone—lest I lose this roof too.

What hurt most was Margaret never apologising. Later, she started calling, asking how I was. But there’s no space left for her in my heart. These days, I tell her I’m fine—just like anyone else.

This letter came from a woman in Manchester. There’s no anger in her words, just a plea to cherish those dear to us. She clearly bears the hurt—but forgiveness is possible if the apology is sincere.

So think—have you wronged someone without meaning to? Maybe now’s the time to ask for their forgiveness.