My entire life, I was made to feel small, and now they demand I care for my sick mother.
I, Katherine, was the last and unwanted child in a large family. Besides me, my parents had four others—two brothers and two sisters. My mother never let me forget I was unplanned. “Had to go through with it—too late to stop,” she’d say, her words branding me like hot iron. From childhood, I felt like a stranger, a mistake to be endured. That ache poisoned every day.
We lived in a small town outside Manchester. My parents took pride only in their elder sons, William and Oliver. They were their golden boys: top marks in school, first-class degrees from university, prestigious jobs in London offices. Both married long ago, their children now in elite private schools. I barely knew them—by the time I was born, they’d already left to study. My sisters, Eleanor and Charlotte, were Mummy’s darlings. They married well—one even became a minor celebrity. Spacious homes, luxury cars, children in exclusive academies. Mummy bragged about them to anyone who’d listen, while I was the disappointment.
My sisters despised me. They grudgingly babysat me as a girl, never missing a chance to sneer. “You’ll never measure up,” they’d laugh. When guests visited, Mummy would pull out albums of the elder children, recounting their triumphs, then dismiss me with, “Katherine? Oh, she muddles along.” I tried, but no one noticed. After school, I trained as a seamstress, earned my certificate, and worked in a modest atelier. Sewing brought me joy, and I made a tidy wage—but my parents scoffed. “A *seamstress*? That’s not a proper career.” I left home, lived in a bedsit, then rented a flat just to escape their scorn.
Years later, I met Samuel. He was my salvation. We married, had a daughter, little Emily. For the first time, I was happy. Then fate struck—Samuel and Emily died in a car crash. My heart shattered. I was left hollow, with no room for hope. My family offered no comfort. Not a call, not a kind word—as though my grief didn’t exist. My coworkers at the atelier became my only lifeline. A decade passed, lost in work, trying not to remember the day my world ended.
Recently, a man named Thomas came into my life. He’s kind, but I’m not ready—the wounds are too deep. And just as I began tentatively opening up, my family suddenly remembered me. Father died years ago, and now Mummy lies bedridden. She needs care, but her successful, busy children can’t be bothered. They rang me as if I were their last resort. “You’ve nothing better to do—look after her. Make yourself useful,” my brothers snapped. My sisters echoed, “It’s your duty.”
I was stunned. These people spent my life belittling me, calling me a failure, mocking my dreams. They abandoned me in my darkest hour, and now they expect me to drop everything and tend to the woman who never loved me? The mother who wished I’d never been born, who praised everyone but me? I refused. “Sort it yourselves,” I said, steel in my voice. Then came the threats—my brothers shouting they’d cut me out of the will, my sisters vowing to shame me publicly. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Their words can’t touch me—I’ve endured too much.
My heart aches—not from their threats, but because I was never family to them. To them, I was a burden, and now—a free nurse. I won’t return to their world, where they walked all over me. Let Mummy be cared for by her prized, “successful” children. I’ll live for myself, for whatever future remains. Thomas whispers of new beginnings, and maybe I’ll say yes. But one thing’s certain: I won’t let them break me again. They lost me forever, and that’s their doing—not mine.
