I’ve been treated like rubbish my whole life, and now they expect me to look after our sick mum.
I’m Catherine, the youngest and unwanted child in a big family. Besides me, my parents had four others—two brothers and two sisters. Mum never let me forget I wasn’t planned. “Had to go through with it, was too late to do anything else,” she’d say, and those words burned like hot iron. From childhood, I felt like an outsider, a mistake they just put up with. That pain followed me everywhere, poisoning every day.
We lived in a small town near Manchester. Mum and Dad only ever bragged about my older brothers, William and James. They were their pride and joy—top marks in school, first-class degrees, fancy jobs in London offices. Both married young, their kids now in posh private schools. I barely knew them—they were off to uni by the time I was born. My sisters, Alice and Emily? Mum’s favourites. They married well—one even became a singer with a bit of fame. Big houses, flash cars, kids in expensive schools. Mum showed them off to everyone, while she’d call me a failure.
My sisters despised me. They had to babysit me as kids, but never missed a chance to cut me down. “You’ll never be as good as us,” they’d laugh. When guests came over, Mum would pull out photo albums of the older kids, gushing over their achievements, then shrug when it came to me. “Catherine? Oh, she just scrapes by.” I worked hard, but no one noticed. After school, I trained as a seamstress, got my qualifications, and landed a job at a little tailor’s shop. I loved sewing—it brought me joy, and I made decent money. But my parents just scoffed. “A seamstress? That’s not a proper job.” I moved out, lived in a shared flat, then got my own place just to escape their digs.
Years later, I met Michael. He was my lifeline. We married, had a daughter, little Annabel. For the first time, I was happy. Then life crashed down—Michael and Annabel died in a car accident. My heart shattered. I was alone, empty, with no hope left. My family didn’t lift a finger. Not a call, not a word of comfort—like my pain didn’t matter. The only people who stood by me were my coworkers at the shop. For ten years, I threw myself into work, trying to forget the day I lost everything.
Lately, there’s been a man, Oliver. He’s kind, but I’m not ready—the wounds run too deep. Just as I’m starting to open up again, my family suddenly remembers I exist. Dad passed years ago, and now Mum’s bedridden. She needs care, but my oh-so-successful siblings can’t be bothered. They rang me like I was their last resort. “You’ve got nothing better to do, look after Mum. At least you’ll be useful for once,” my brothers said. My sisters echoed it: “It’s your duty.”
I was stunned. These people spent my whole life belittling me, calling me worthless, laughing at my dreams. They vanished when I hit rock bottom, and now they expect me to drop everything for the woman who never loved me? The mum who wished I’d never been born, who praised everyone but me? I said no. “Sort it out yourselves,” I told them, voice steady. Then came the threats—brothers yelling they’d cut me out of the will, sisters vowing to ruin my name. But I don’t care. Their words don’t hurt anymore—I’ve put up with too much for too long.
My heart aches, not from their threats, but because I was never family to them. They saw me as a burden then, and now, as free labour. I won’t go back to that world where they walked all over me. Let Mum get her care from her precious golden children. I’m living for myself now. Oliver wants us to start fresh, and maybe I will. But one thing’s certain—I won’t let them break me again. They lost me for good, and that’s on them, not me.
