“Why should I be the one to look after her? Here’s Edward—her golden boy, the favourite—let him step up.” Why I refused to care for my sick mother.
I realised long ago: in families with more than one child, there’s almost always a favourite and an outcast. The one who’s doted on gets endless excuses, sympathy, and support. The other—the unwanted one—gets blamed for every family misfortune. That’s how it was in my family.
Mum adored my younger brother, Edward. As for me… I was the “mistake.” Once, in an argument, she snapped: “If it weren’t for you, I’d never have divorced your father.” Those words buried themselves so deep inside me that even years later, I can’t forget them. Back then, I didn’t understand how a mother could say such a thing to her child. I never asked to be born. But she clearly saw it differently.
After the divorce, she handed me over to my father’s parents—my grandparents. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a strange house, without my mother. My grandparents were kind to me. They became my real family. Meanwhile, Mum poured everything into Edward—pampering him, bailing him out of trouble, even as an adult when he got tangled in shady dealings. She paid his debts, kept him out of trouble with the police, cleaned up his messes.
Later, she sold her big four-bedroom flat in the city centre to buy him a place. I only found out about it afterwards, from friends. She didn’t spare me a thought. She’d poured everything into him—love, money, sanity. And me? She forgot me, as if I’d never existed.
I’ve lived in another town for years now. I married, raised a daughter. Now, we even have a grandson—our daughter had a boy and lives in the flat left to her by my grandparents. We live quietly, peacefully, owe nothing to anyone. Mum and I barely spoke. Why would we? We were strangers.
Then everything changed.
Mum broke her hip. The hospital said she needed surgery, private care. And guess who paid for it? Me. Yes, me. Out of my own pocket. Because, despite everything, she’s still my mother. I didn’t want her to suffer.
But after the surgery, it turned out she’d need long-term rehab—someone to care for her, cook, clean, take her to appointments.
And suddenly, Edward “passed the buck” to me. Calls, pleas, then pressure: “You have to! You’re her daughter!”
I refused.
Then came the backlash. Both of them—Mum and Edward—turned on me. Accusations, dredged-up grudges—things I’d supposedly done to them. Mum cried, “I gave birth to you, raised you!” And I thought: What exactly did she raise? Sent me away, forgot about me? Love, care, warmth—all of it went one way. Only to Edward.
So why remember me now, when she’s suffering? Where was I in her life before?
I didn’t hold back. I told her plainly:
“Mum, you made your choice. You bet everything on one child and discarded the other. Now it’s harvest time. Here’s your golden boy—strong, capable. Let him take care of you. I’m not that little girl you can guilt-trip anymore. I owe you nothing.”
They didn’t like that. Insults flew—heartless, cruel, ungrateful. But inside, I felt nothing.
No guilt. Just sorrow. Sorrow for how unjust our story had been.
Now Mum’s in a care home. Edward visits when he can. And me? I live my life. Sometimes I dream of my grandmother—the one who took me in, wiped my tears, read me stories. She was the only real mother I ever had.
Let them say I’m bitter. It’s true. I’m no saint. But I won’t give myself away again to those who once threw me aside.
