Long ago, I realised that in families with more than one child, there is often a favourite—and an outsider. The beloved one is endlessly excused, coddled, and supported. The other, the unwanted, is blamed for every misfortune. So it was in my family.
Mother doted on my younger brother, Edward. As for me? I was the accident. Once, in anger, she spat at me, *”If not for you, I’d never have divorced your father.”* Those words burrowed deep, unforgotten even now. I hadn’t asked to be born. Yet she held it against me.
After the divorce, she sent me to live with my father’s parents—my grandparents. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a strange house, without her. My grandparents were kind; they became my true family. Meanwhile, Mother stayed with Edward, fussing over him, rescuing him—even as a grown man tangled in shady dealings. She paid his debts, smoothed things with the police, cleaned his name.
Later, she sold her grand four-bedroom flat in Mayfair to buy him a home. I only learned of it through friends. She never spared me a thought. Edward got all her love, money, and worry. As for me? It was as if I’d never existed.
I moved away long ago—married, raised a daughter. Now we have a grandson, and our girl lives in the flat left by my grandparents. We’re quiet, content, owing nothing. Mother and I hardly spoke. Why bother, when we were strangers?
Then everything changed.
Mother broke her hip. The hospital said she needed a private operation. And who paid? I did. Yes, me. From my own pocket. Because, despite everything, she was still my mother. I couldn’t bear her suffering.
But after the surgery, she needed long-term care—someone to cook, wash, take her to appointments.
Suddenly, Edward passed the burden to me. Calls, pleas, then demands: *”You must! You’re her daughter!”*
I refused.
The storm broke. Both of them—Mother and Edward—turned on me, dredging up old grudges, slinging blame. *”I gave you life!”* she cried. I wondered—what had she given me? Sent away, forgotten. Love, care, warmth—Edward had it all.
So why remember me now, in her misery? Where had I been in her life before?
I held nothing back.
*”You made your choice, Mother. You bet everything on one child and cast the other aside. Now it’s time to reap what you sowed. Here’s your golden boy—strong, capable. Let him care for you. I’m not the girl you can guilt into duty. I owe no one.”*
They hurled insults—*heartless, cruel, ungrateful.* But I felt nothing. No guilt. Only bitterness at the unfairness of our story.
Now she lies in a care home. Edward visits when he can. And I? 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 mother I ever truly had.
Let them say I nursed a grudge. It’s true. I’m no saint. But I won’t give myself again to those who once discarded me.
