**Diary Entry**

My sister cast me out without a second thought.

Margaret—Maggie to me—had always been the most important person in my world. After our parents passed, we promised each other we’d always stand by 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, leaving me without a home of my own. Maggie offered me a place in her flat, though she was rarely there, always jetting off to Spain or somewhere else sunny.

Losing my job at my ex-husband’s firm left me homeless *and* unemployed. It was tough—I survived on savings at first, then found work as a cleaner. All the while, I’d been living in Maggie’s flat for over two years.

Then, one day, she told me I’d have to leave soon because she’d decided to rent it out. She’d even spoken to an estate agent already. I didn’t know what to say. The only word that came out was, “Alright.” My chest tightened—I could barely breathe. But I had to pull myself together and think: *Where do I go? What do I do?*

When Maggie returned home later, she was chirping about the utility bills and her meeting with the agent. I couldn’t focus. That same evening, she flew off to Ibiza for four months, grinning like she hadn’t a care. Usually, I’d be happy for her. Not this time.

All I could think was: *Where will I live?* Renting a studio in Manchester costs a fortune, and my wages would barely cover a shed on the outskirts. I turned every option over in my head, but nothing made sense.

A month later, the doorbell rang.

A young woman introduced herself as Maggie’s agent and told me to leave immediately—the new tenants were moving in that night. I explained I had nowhere to go, that my sister hadn’t warned me. She didn’t listen. I tried calling Maggie, but with the time difference, it was the middle of the night in Ibiza.

I packed my things and left. That night, I slept on a park bench. The next morning, a text from Maggie arrived: *”Love, I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m sure you’ve found somewhere by now.”*

It shattered me. How could she do this? She was my *own sister*.

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

The sadness cut deep—knowing money mattered more than family. Eventually, I rented a tiny room in an old house on the city’s edge. Later, I found a better job. Things eased, a little.

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

What hurts most is that Maggie never truly apologised. She calls sometimes, asking how I am. But there’s no room for her in my heart anymore. I tell her I’m fine—just like everyone else.

This wasn’t anger, just grief for what we lost. Maybe if she’d said sorry, truly, things might’ve been different.

Think about it—have you hurt someone without realising? Maybe now’s the time to make it right.