“Why should *I* be the one to look after her? There’s Wesley—her golden boy—let *him* step up.” That’s when I knew: in families with more than one child, someone always ends up the favourite, and someone else—the afterthought. The beloved one is excused, coddled, defended. The other? Blamed for every misfortune. In my family, that’s exactly how it was.
Mum adored my younger brother, Wesley. Me? I was the mistake. Once, in an argument, she spat at me: *”If it weren’t for you, I’d never have divorced your father.”* Those words burrowed into me like splinters, still festering years later. Back then, I couldn’t fathom how a mother could say such a thing to her own child. *I* hadn’t asked to be born. But Mum seemed to think otherwise.
After the split, she dumped me on my father’s parents—like luggage. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a stranger’s house, without her. Nan and Grandad were kind, though. They became my real family. Meanwhile, Mum devoted herself to Wesley—fussing, fretting, fishing him out of trouble even as an adult, bailing him out of debts, cleaning up his messes with the law.
Later, she sold her big four-bedroom house in Chelsea just to buy *him* a flat. I only heard about it through the grapevine. Not a thought spared for me. She poured everything into him—love, money, sanity. As for me? Erased.
I’ve lived in Manchester for years now. Married, raised a daughter. We’ve even got a grandson—my girl lives in the flat Nan and Grandad left her. Quiet. Stable. No debts. Mum and I barely spoke. Why would we? We’re strangers.
Then everything twisted sideways.
Mum fractured her hip. The hospital said she needed surgery—private, of course. And guess who paid? Me. *Me.* Out of my own pocket. Because, twisted as it is, she’s still my mother. I didn’t want her to suffer.
But post-op, they said she’d need rehab. Someone had to care for her—cook, clean, ferry her to appointments.
That’s when Wesley suddenly *”passed the baton.”* Calls at first. Pleading. Then pushing: *”You have to. You’re her daughter!”*
I said no.
The backlash was instant. Both of them—Mum and Wesley—turned on me. Accusations. Old wounds they claimed *I’d* inflicted. Mum wheezed: *”I gave you life, raised you!”* And I thought—*how?* You shipped me off and forgot me. Love, warmth, safety—Wesley got it all.
So why remember me now, when she’s broken? Where was *I* in her life before?
I snapped: *”You made your choice, Mum. Bet everything on one child, discarded the other. Now it’s harvest time. Here’s your golden boy—strong, capable. Let *him* step up. I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I owe you nothing.”*
They didn’t like that. Called me heartless. Cruel. Ungrateful. But something inside me had already petrified.
No guilt. Just a bitter aftertaste—the unfairness of it all.
Now Mum’s in a rehab centre. Wesley visits when it suits him. And me? I’m living. Sometimes I dream of Nan—the woman who held me, wiped my tears, read me stories. *She* was my mother.
Let them say I’m spiteful. It’s true. I’m no saint. But I won’t give myself to people who threw me away.
