**The Unloved Daughter**
I was nearly home when my phone rang. Digging it out of my bag, I answered my brother’s call.
“Hey, Timmy,” I said without a second thought, using the childhood nickname he’d outgrown years ago, even though he was now taller and broader than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminded me—just as well, because I *had* forgotten.
“Of course not,” I lied smoothly. “Have you got her present yet?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Let’s meet up and sort something out.”
“Sure. Fancy coming over? Or we could grab lunch tomorrow at The Oak?” I suggested.
“Done. I’ll meet you there at noon. Text me if anything changes, yeah? See you then.” And with that, Anthony hung up.
I adore him, my little brother. He’s the closest person to me—not Mum, but him. It terrifies me now to remember there was once 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 the start, clinging to each other like shadows. But they had nowhere to be alone—Mum still lived with her parents, and Dad was stuck in halls. Marriage seemed the only solution, so they announced their plans to Mum’s parents. Sighs, pleas to wait, tears—none of it worked. The young lovers were too stubborn, too convinced of their own unshakable love. In the end, her parents relented.
Mum’s always been the relentless sort. Once she sets her mind to something, she bulldozes through. She convinced them to keep the wedding small and use the savings to rent a flat—no way they could all cram into her parents’ two-bed terrace. And so it was settled.
At first, newlywed bliss consumed them. They spent every spare moment tangled in bedsheets, stumbling into lectures exhausted but glowing. Like all young lovers, they swore their bond was unbreakable. They never saw what was coming.
Then, predictably, Mum fell pregnant. A shock, but they took it in stride. Only a year and a half left of their degrees—they’d manage.
But Mum grew irritable. Morning sickness wrecked her. The smell of food turned her stomach; cooking was impossible. Dad started lingering at the student pub, coming home late. Arguments flared, though they always made up, especially once the nausea passed.
Then I arrived, and sleepless nights swallowed them whole. Uni didn’t stop for babies. Nan and Grandad took turns using their leave to watch me so Mum could attend lectures, though she often ducked out early, aching from trapped milk.
Their exhaustion seeped into me. Maybe that’s why I wailed unless held. They leapt at any chance to palm me off and escape—even napping in lecture halls.
Love alone wasn’t enough. Inexperience and impatience took over. They nitpicked, kept score. Dad fled to the pub again, returning to fresh rows each night.
Eventually, finals passed. Degrees earned, Dad started working. Money improved; sleepless nights faded. I grew older, started nursery, and Mum went back to work. Then I got sick constantly. Mum burned through sick days. Grandparents were still working—no help there. Life kept testing them. Dad stayed out later…
One night, he came home past midnight, and Mum exploded.
“That’s it!” he shouted. “I can’t do this anymore. Marrying you was a mistake. We rushed into it. I’m in love with someone else.” No warning. No pause. He packed a bag and left.
I don’t remember this, of course. Too young. Mum told me some; Nan filled gaps. The rest, I pieced together.
Not every young marriage survives the grind. After Dad left, Mum changed. She wept often, taking her anger out on me.
Spilled tea? Dropped biscuits? “You’re *just* like your father,” she’d snap. So I decided he’d left because I was bad. Grew up believing it.
“Other children manage, but you? Always filthy. Clumsy. *Just like him*.”
My *existence* seemed to irritate her. Probably true—Nan often said I was Dad’s mirror image. What rotten luck.
My life’s purpose became not disappointing her. Anything less than top marks felt catastrophic. I scraped myself raw for her approval. Got none.
My handwriting was messy.
“Chicken scratch,” Mum sneered. “Your father’s notes were just as illegible.”
So I spent evenings drilling letters instead of playing. Eventually, my writing was neat—not that she noticed.
Then she remarried. Things *did* get easier—she ignored me entirely. Stepdad, Paul, would slip into my room to play, help with homework. Until she called him away.
Once, he asked if I wanted a sibling—a brother or sister? I didn’t. I just wanted to be loved. “A brother,” I said. He smiled, ruffled my hair. Mum *never* did that. The simple kindness undid me.
The days Mum was in hospital having Timmy? Pure bliss. Just Paul and me. No shouting. I started calling him *Dad*. Then she came home with that tiny bundle, and everything changed again.
I *hated* Timmy. Shrieking, helpless, stealing Paul’s attention. But he grew—stumbling after me on chubby legs. If he fell? My fault. Mum doted on *his* milestones, forgetting mine. Only Paul asked about school. That’s when the thought took root—if Timmy *disappeared*, maybe Dad would love only *me*.
The summer I turned nine, we went to Brighton. Timmy was three. Endless sea, golden sand—bliss. We strayed from the crowds that day. Mum napped under her sunhat, Dad reading beside her.
“Can we swim?” I asked.
Timmy copied instantly. Dad warned me to watch him and stay shallow.
I hadn’t planned it. We waded in, Timmy gripping my hand bravely. I glanced back—Mum still dozing, Dad absorbed in his book. Water reached Timmy’s chest now. I let his hand slip.
He stopped, blinking up at me.
“Look—dolphins!” I pointed seaward.
He stepped forward—into a dip. A wave swallowed him whole.
I *could* have grabbed him. Didn’t. Just watched him thrash. His head broke the surface once—eyes wide, *confused*—before he vanished again.
Then terror hit. I *ran*, screaming. Dad sprinted past me, hauled Timmy out. No harm done—just seawater and coughs. But the look he gave me? I wanted to *vanish*. Pure *disgust*.
He didn’t tell Mum. Timmy babbled about dolphins. But Dad never left us alone again. He *knew*.
That’s how I nearly killed my brother. The guilt never left. He forgot. Or forgave.
I aced my A-levels. Could’ve gone anywhere. Chose Edinburgh—far enough.
At uni, they thought me bookish and shy. Just a damaged girl, really. I avoided boys.
By my graduation, Timmy was finishing school. He *begged* to follow me north. Never understood why he *adored* me.
We shared a flat. Parents helped. My hatred melted—I *loved* him. Ridiculously handsome now, too.
Then he met Kate. Nan left her a flat; they moved in. I covered for him. When parents visited, he’d crash at mine.
He’s my only real family.
***
“Hey!” I waved, spotting him by The Oak’s window.
“Oi.” He kissed my cheek—might’ve looked like lovers to strangers. “Got your usual—coffee, cinnamon bun.”
“Ta. Not hungry, though.”
Coffee arrived. Timmy demolished his pastry like a starved wolf. I slid mine over.
“So—Mum’s birthday?” I asked.
“Kate and I had an idea. She’ll *love* it. But I’ll need your help.”
“Obviously.”
Mum *always* praised Timmy’s gifts—even the rubbish ones—while mine gathered dust. Why try now? I’d wire him the money.
“It’ll be from both of us,” he said.
I nodded, smiling. We planned the trip home. Then Timmy leaned in.
“That bloke’s been eyeing you,” he murmured, winking. “Gotta dash. Don’t miss your ice cream.” And he was gone.
Cheeky sod. Knew my weakness. The waiter brought chocolate scoop just as that bloke—*recognisable* from my office—approached.
That’s how I met my husband.
I stopped fearing Mum. Stopped begging for scraps. *Grew up*.
They say daughters repeat their mothers. Not true. I might share her temper, but my children? I’llI’ll never let them wonder if they’re loved.
