The first time I walked back into my childhood home after moving out, I felt a pang of nostalgia. The creak of the stairs, the faint scent of lavender from my mom’s old diffuser—it was all the same. But when I opened the door to my old bedroom, my breath caught in my throat. The posters, the bookshelves, the little notes I had taped to the mirror—gone. My sister, Emily, had taken over the room. And what she had turned it into made me feel like a stranger in my own memories.
Growing up, Emily and I were close in the way sisters are when they don’t have anyone else. We shared secrets under the covers, fought over clothes, and whispered about boys late at night. But when I left for college, something shifted. She stayed home, got more involved with Mom, and I became the outsider. I told myself it was normal. That’s what happens when you grow up.
But my room was sacred. It was where I cried after Dad left, where I scribbled dreams into journals, where I taped acceptance letters to the wall. It was my anchor. So when I stepped in that day, suitcase still in hand, I felt like the ground disappeared beneath me.
The walls were painted black. The shelves that once held my books were stacked with candles, tarot cards, and strange jars filled with herbs. My desk—where I used to study until two in the morning—was cluttered with photographs. Some of them were mine. Childhood pictures I thought I had taken with me. But someone had drawn over them in marker, crossing out my face or circling Emily’s.
“What the hell is this?” I whispered.
Behind me, I heard her voice. “Do you like it?” Emily stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. Her hair was dyed jet black now, eyeliner sharp as knives. She looked like a stranger.
“This was my room,” I said, my voice trembling.
“You moved out,” she shot back. “It’s mine now.”
I wanted to argue, but my eyes landed on a photograph taped to the mirror. It was of me, from prom night, in my blue dress. Across the photo, in red ink, were the words: She doesn’t belong.
My stomach lurched. “Emily, what is this?” I demanded, my voice rising.
She shrugged. “It’s just art. Don’t be so dramatic.”
But it didn’t feel like art. It felt like something darker. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake in the guest room, replaying the look in her eyes, the casual way she dismissed my horror.
The next morning, I went back into the room. She was gone, but the smell of incense lingered thick in the air. On the desk, I noticed a notebook I hadn’t seen before. Against my better judgment, I opened it. Page after page was filled with writing—messy, jagged words. Some were chants, strange phrases repeated over and over. Others were lists. My name appeared on almost every page, underlined, circled, scratched out.
One entry froze my blood: If she comes back, I’ll finally make her leave for good.
I dropped the notebook, my hands shaking.
That evening, I confronted her again. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Why are you writing about me like this?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think everything’s about you. You left. You built a new life. But you still expect this house to be yours. It’s not. It’s mine now.”
“Emily, you’re scaring me.”
“Good.”
Her voice was flat, cold. And for the first time, I realized the girl I grew up with wasn’t there anymore.
I told Mom about the notebook, about the photos, about everything. She looked torn, her hands trembling as she held the pages. “She’s just expressing herself,” she said weakly. “She’s been lonely since you left.”
“Mom, this isn’t expression,” I said firmly. “This is obsession.”
Mom didn’t want to believe it. But when Emily came home later, slamming doors and muttering under her breath, even she looked afraid.
I don’t live there anymore. I couldn’t. The last time I visited, my old room was locked, curtains drawn tight. Emily wouldn’t let anyone in. And sometimes, late at night, I think about that notebook. About my crossed-out face, about those words: I’ll finally make her leave for good.
Final Thought
People talk about siblings as built-in best friends, as the people who know you better than anyone. But sometimes, the closeness curdles. Sometimes, the bond twists into something unrecognizable. My sister didn’t just take my room. She tried to erase me from the walls of my own childhood. And the scariest part is—I don’t know if she’ll ever stop trying.
