The Unloved Daughter
I’m nearly home when my phone rings from inside my bag. I pull it out and answer my brother.
“Hi, Tosh.” I call him by his childhood nickname without a second thought, even though he’s grown now, taller than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminds me.
And it’s just as well, because I had forgotten.
“No, of course not,” I lie shamelessly. “Have you got her a present yet?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Let’s meet up and talk about it.”
“Alright. Fancy coming over to mine? Or we could meet tomorrow at lunch, at our usual café?” I suggest.
“Sorted. I’ll see you at noon. We’ll ring if anything changes, yeah? Catch you tomorrow.” And with that, Anton hangs up.
I adore him, my little brother. He’s the closest person to me. Not Mum—him. It’s terrifying to remember now that there was a time I wanted to kill him. The guilt never leaves me, especially when I see him. The shame, too. I’d never forgive myself. But back then…
***
My future parents met at university, inseparable from day one. They went everywhere together but had nowhere to be alone—Mum still lived with her parents, and Dad was in halls. The only way they could be together properly was to get married. So they announced it to Mum’s parents. Sighs, pleas to wait, even tears—none of it worked. The two of them were adamant, fiercely defending their right to love. In the end, her parents had no choice but to relent.
Mum’s the sort of person who, once she’s made up her mind, will bulldoze through anything. She convinced her parents to hold a modest wedding and use the money they saved to rent a flat for the newlyweds. They couldn’t all live together in those two cramped rooms. So that’s what they did.
At first, the newlyweds spent every spare moment in bed. They stumbled into lectures bleary-eyed, exhausted, radiating bliss. Like all young lovers, they were certain their bond could withstand anything. And why wouldn’t it? The future seemed bright. How naïve they were.
What had to happen, happened—Mum got pregnant. For both of them, it was a shock. Their first real test, which they faced with determination. They still had a year and a half of studies left. They’d manage, they told themselves.
Mum became irritable. Terrible morning sickness left her exhausted. The smell of food made her nauseous; she couldn’t cook. Dad started spending evenings at the student bar with his mates. Arguments began. But they always made up quickly, especially once the nausea passed and Mum could cook again.
When I arrived, the sleepless nights and exhaustion set in. Uni wasn’t going anywhere. My grandparents took turns using their leave to look after me so Mum could finish her degree. She often skipped lectures, her breasts aching from the milk she had to express.
Her exhaustion and stress seeped into me. I think that’s why I cried so much and only slept in someone’s arms. My parents leapt at any chance to hand me over and escape—back to lectures, where they might even snatch a nap.
Love was one thing, but they lacked experience and patience. Suddenly, they noticed each other’s flaws, picking fights over who did or didn’t do what. Fatigue and sleeplessness fuelled endless rows. Dad vanished into the bar again, coming home late, sparking fresh arguments.
Eventually, final exams passed, degrees were earned. Dad started working. The days of no money and sleepless nights were behind them. I grew older, started nursery, and Mum went back to work. Then I began falling ill. Mum took frequent sick leave. My grandparents were still young, far from retirement—they couldn’t help. Life kept testing them. Dad started staying late at work…
One evening, he came home late, and Mum launched into another row.
“That’s it!” he shouted. “I can’t live like this. Marrying you was a mistake. We rushed into it… I love someone else.” Just like that, no warning, no pause. He packed his things and left.
I was too young to remember this. Some of it I heard from Mum, some from Grandma—the rest I pieced together as I grew older.
Not every young marriage survives the grind of daily life. After Dad left, Mum changed. She cried often, taking her pain and bitterness out on me.
If I spilt tea or dropped a biscuit, she’d snap that I was hopeless, just like my father. I decided Dad left because of me—because I was bad. For years, I believed it. That’s how I grew up, drowning in guilt.
“All children behave, but you—you’re always filthy,” she’d scold. “Useless. Just like your father.”
I thought just the sight of me irritated her. Maybe I was right—Grandma often said I was the spitting image of Dad. Why did I have to look so much like him?
My life’s purpose became not upsetting Mum. A grade less than an A was a tragedy. I bent over backwards to please her, but nothing ever did.
My handwriting was rubbish.
“What’s this scribble? Like a chicken’s scratched it,” Mum would sneer. “Your father’s writing was just as bad.”
So I spent evenings practising, copying letters instead of playing. Eventually, I developed beautiful handwriting. Mum didn’t even notice.
Then she remarried. Things got easier—she stopped paying me any attention. Uncle Steve often came to my room, playing with me or helping with homework until Mum called him away.
Once, he asked me: “Would you like a little brother or sister?” I didn’t want either. I just wanted to be loved. “A brother,” I said. Uncle Steve smiled and ruffled my hair. Mum never did that. My heart swelled with gratitude for the affection.
Those few days when Mum was in hospital having the baby were the happiest I’d known. Just me and Uncle Steve. No shouting, no rows. I started calling him Dad. Then Mum came home with a tiny bundle, and my life shifted again.
My brother was helpless, screaming constantly. I grew to hate him. Now Dad barely noticed me either. But time passed. The little nuisance toddled after me on chubby, wobbly legs. It didn’t bring me joy. If he fell or hurt himself, Mum flew into a rage, blaming me.
All the love went to him. Mum proudly listed his daily achievements, forgetting I existed. Only Dad asked about my schoolwork. That’s when the idea took root—if my brother vanished, Dad would love only me. Not even an idea, really—just a dark, shapeless thought.
When I finished Year 3 and Tosh turned three, we went to the seaside. It was brilliant! Endless warm waves, golden sand, cloudless skies. I swam, collected shells, built sandcastles away from the crowds.
That day, Mum sunbathed, her face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. Dad sat nearby, reading. It was sweltering.
“Can I go for a swim?” I asked.
Tosh immediately piped up, copying me as always. Dad let us go, warning me to watch him and not go too far.
I hadn’t planned anything. We just waded in. Tosh gripped my hand, bravely following as the water rose to his chest. I glanced back—Mum still lay under her hat, Dad still reading. The water reached Tosh’s shoulders, but I stepped deeper. Then I let go.
He stopped, looking up at me, confused.
“Look—dolphins!” I pointed towards the horizon.
Tosh took another step, stumbled into a dip, and vanished under a wave. I didn’t grab him. Didn’t pull him up, though I could have. I just watched him thrash, choking. For a second, his head broke the surface. Our eyes met—no fear, just bewilderment. Then he sank again.
Suddenly, terror gripped me. I turned and sprinted for shore, screaming. Dad was already running towards me. He must have seen. He tore past me, diving into the water where Tosh had gone under.
He pulled him out. Nothing happened—Tosh just swallowed a lot of water. But the way Dad looked at me… I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. His eyes were full of disappointment.
I was terrified he’d tell Mum. He never did. Tosh just babbled about seeing dolphins. After that, Dad never left us alone together. He never trusted me again.
That’s how I nearly drowned my brother. I’ve carried the guilt my whole life. He never understood what happened. Or if he didI hold onto his love now, tighter than I ever held onto my regrets.
