The first time my sister stole my boyfriend I was 18 years old. Shortly after finishing boarding school, I was living in my father’s flat in London and taking a secretarial course.
James worked in the city. Brother of a friend, he was tall, handsome, funny and outgoing. I always felt a little more special when he included me in the conversation. We became inseparable. James was the first man I slept with, the first man I loved, and at that moment I honestly thought he was the one. We had been dating for six months when he met my older sister, Libby, who, at 22, was doing a bit of modeling and had her own place.
When she walked in one night – all piercing blue eyes, shiny olive skin, long hair flowing over her shoulders, and wearing a flowy wrap dress that showed off her cleavage – James’ jaw nearly hit the floor.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her inspire this reaction in men. However, while he continued to be his usual fun and exuberant self, I made sure he was just being friendly.
That was my mistake, one that Libby realized instantly.
Shortly after she went home, James said he needed to return to his house, even though the plan was to stay at mine.
Part of me wanted to scream. How could he do this to me? How could I?
Although disappointed, I saw no cause for alarm. From then on James began to distance himself, claiming that he could not meet due to work commitments.
A couple of months later, he stopped calling me and my calls went unanswered. I was confused and heartbroken, crying for what I was sure was the great love of my life.
I didn’t see Libby again after that night until Christmas, when she asked me if I’d seen James recently – an unusual question given that she’d only met him once and we hadn’t talked about him since. When I told him we broke up, he blushed.
But it wasn’t until a couple of months later that I achieved it.
A friend mentioned that she had seen them together at a bar, whispering and holding hands. She nervously asked if my sister and I “shared” men.
Horrified, I laughed and said we had already broken up. Although inside I felt devastated, humiliated and betrayed.
You might wonder why I didn’t confront my sister, but I was only 18 and she had always been more glamorous, more imposing, more intimidating. In our family, Libby was the sun around which my father and I revolved. I’ve always been quiet, a bit of a bookworm. And physically I was never a match for her.
Of course James preferred her to me.
I never had the confidence that comes with Libby’s physical perfection, and I certainly didn’t possess the maturity or self-assurance to criticize her, so I simply buried the pain I felt.
Some 18 years later, I’m definitely not laughing.
Because, including James, Libby has now slept with both of the boyfriends I introduced her to and my (now ex) husband.
And yet, perversely, the complex dynamic between us – a dynamic that has its roots in our shared childhood trauma after our mother left home without looking back – means that I still feel helpless today, at 36. years, to let my pain rip to its full extent. and anger towards her like I did when I was that shy and insecure teenager.
The next time it happened, I was in my twenties. By then, Libby was living in Ibiza and the James incident was long forgiven, if not forgotten.
So when a quick visit home coincided with the weekend I was hosting a dinner to introduce my boyfriend Will to my closest friends, I invited Libby too.
Will was in his early 30s and worked in insurance, tall, with curly hair and beautiful brown eyes. We had been together for six months and things were getting serious between us.
By then, in her early 30s, Libby was still exceptionally beautiful, with the kind of presence that lights up a room and makes everyone else fade into the background. However, at first she fit in perfectly. It was around midnight when my friends started to drift away that things took a turn.
After they left, I went to the kitchen to make coffee, which I hoped would signal to Libby that it was time for her to leave as well. Will was due back home too, but only after (so I assumed) we’d finished the night in bed together.
But at the sound of falling glassware, I stopped grinding the coffee and headed for the dining room door, only to see Libby straddling Will, running her fingers through his hair.
Part of me wanted to scream. How could he do this to me again? How could I? Was Libby really so much more irresistible than me that no man could prefer me when presented with the alternative?
I think that fear, that shame, is part of the reason why – instead of making a scene – I froze.
Realizing that they hadn’t seen me, I retreated silently to the kitchen, shouting to ask who wanted sugar, despite knowing perfectly well that neither of us took it.
When I re-entered the room, they were both back in their seats. Ten minutes later, Libby’s taxi was outside, and as she gathered her things, she casually offered Will a ride home, which he accepted, even though he wasn’t on the way.
When the door closed behind them, I burst into tears. I knew what was going to happen. Libby was going to have sex again with a man she was in love with.
That night, when Will ran after my sister, was the last time I heard from him. I wasn’t going to lower myself by calling him.
As for Libby? Once again, I didn’t confront her. But I didn’t see her again for two years either.
Did she know the reason I kept her at a distance? Was it his fault why he didn’t approach me either? Maybe if we lived close, if we enjoyed a close relationship, I could have finally ended it. But when she returned to Ibiza, I felt it was best to keep distance between us in every way.
It was two years later when I married David, whom I met through our work in the art world. He was involved in curating exhibitions and we clicked immediately.
While James and Will had been loud, outgoing characters like Libby, David was like me; both introverts, both younger children and the happiest staying home listening to music or watching TV.
And he was less handsome than any of them. Now I wonder if I had unconsciously chosen as a husband a man who I thought my sister would not be attracted to. I sent Libby an invitation to the wedding, but she canceled because she was on the other side of the world for some kind of charity modeling engagement. I didn’t try to persuade her.
A year later, I decided it was time to end this stalemate. So he invited me and David to his villa in Ibiza to celebrate my 30th birthday. He was my husband. Surely that was a line she wouldn’t cross. Now I punish myself for being so stupid.
During our stay, she wandered around in sheer kaftans, sunbathing topless, and openly flirting with him, telling him about this cove or that beach we should definitely go to where naked swimming was the norm.
I was completely mesmerized.
David and I would row every night in our bedroom, I would rip him off for looking at her breasts and he would say I was overreacting and of course I had nothing to worry about.
There’s no way Libby would have missed our fights. If I’m honest, I was cowardly hoping that her hearing my distress would serve as a way for me to address the issue without having to confront her.
Between the anger, hurt, jealousy, and fear I felt, I saw the worst of myself on that vacation and vowed to never set foot in my sister’s house again. As David and I flew home in miserable silence, I consoled myself with the thought that at least the worst had been avoided. I made a mistake.
Unable to contain his guilt, a month after returning home, David told me that they had slept together. I honestly have no idea when they did it; I didn’t want him to tell me.
Our divorce, after 18 months of marriage, came shortly after. I didn’t tell anyone the reason for our separation for fear of being judged. I certainly didn’t tell Libby that we had broken up, although I suppose David did. Either way, she never contacted me.
There are two questions here.
Why do I keep falling for men who are so disloyal that they will sleep with my sister? Deep down, even though I know I shouldn’t, I’ve always blamed myself, believing it can only be because I’m inadequate by comparison (in appearance, in personality, in bed).
But the more important question is why have I still never confronted my sister about her behavior?
After four years of near radio silence, we are currently enjoying an awkward reunion following our father’s death, as we review his estate. She is now the only family I have left. Which I think is at the root of our very problematic relationship.
When I was ten and Libby was 14, our mother moved to the Far East with a man she met at work, leaving her bewildered daughters in the care of a cash-rich, time-poor father. None of us have had a relationship with her since.
Dad sent us to different boarding schools and from then on we only saw each other at Dad’s house during the holidays, when we exchanged stories of boarding school life, which I hated, as I was not an academic.
Sometimes it was like meeting a stranger again.
Yet I idolized her, fascinated by her stories of the boys she dated, of losing her virginity, of being the most popular and most desirable girl in school, all a world away from my own experiences. I think that’s why I’ve never been able to cope with it.
One of my therapists (I’m 36 now and have had several over the years to help me with anxiety and self-confidence issues) says the reason my sister sleeps with my boyfriends is because we just never had those years of bonding together when they would have taken care of each other. To Libby, I’m just competition.
Another therapist pointed out that male attention is my clearly insecure sister’s way of validating herself. This is consistent with the rare handful of candid conversations we’ve had over the years.
When she was 25, Libby told me she never got over her mother leaving us (or, as she puts it, abandoning us), and that means she doesn’t trust other women.
Despite acknowledging the irony, I share your feelings of betrayal and loss for Mom. That’s why, despite the pain it’s caused, the thought of a confrontation with Libby that would probably also break up our relationship forever is too much. She’s a nightmare, but she’s my nightmare, the only one I have left now that Dad is gone (and in all honesty, he wasn’t really around when he was alive).
I still love her. And a very small part of me feels sympathy for her.
At this point in my life, I have found some kind of happiness. I love my job, my friends, and since I’ve never felt the need to be a mother, I don’t feel pressured by time to find another partner to have children with. That, at least, isn’t something Libby could have stolen from me.
Meanwhile, as far as I know, aside from a bit of modeling, Libby has never had a proper job (instead, she’s lived off our father’s wealth), has few real friends, and has never had a serious relationship either. . My therapists have told me that she will never change. And I accept now that I can never trust her.
So, as sad as it may seem, I only have hope that, one day, I will find a man who will be happy with me, and only me.
The names have been changed. As told to Samantha Brick