**The Unloved Daughter**
I was almost home when my phone rang in my bag. I pulled it out and answered my brother.
“Hi, Toby.” I still called him by his childhood nickname without guilt, even though he was grown now, taller than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminded me.
And just in time, too—because I had, in fact, forgotten.
“Of course not,” I lied smoothly. “Have you got her gift yet?”
“That’s why I rang. Fancy meeting up to talk about it?”
“Sure. My place? Or maybe lunch tomorrow at our usual café?”
“Brilliant. I’ll see you there at twelve. Call if anything changes, yeah? Catch you tomorrow.” And with that, Anthony hung up.
I adore him, my little brother. He’s the closest person to me—not Mum, just him. It terrifies me now to remember there was a time I wanted to kill him. The guilt still lingers, especially when I see him. The shame, too. I’d never forgive myself. But back then…
***
My parents met at university, inseparable from the start—where one went, the other followed. But they had nowhere to be alone. Mum lived with her parents, and my father in halls. The only solution? Get married. So they announced it to Mum’s parents. Pleading, tears, warnings not to rush—none of it worked. Young and stubborn, they fought for their love. In the end, her parents relented.
Mum’s the sort who, once she’s made up her mind, won’t back down. She convinced them to have a modest wedding and use the savings to rent a flat—no way were they squeezing into her parents’ two-bedroom house. And so it was settled.
At first, newlywed bliss meant they spent every spare moment tangled up together. They stumbled into lectures sleep-deprived, radiating love, convinced nothing could break them. How naïve they were.
Of course, Mum got pregnant. A shock, but they took it in stride. Just a year and a half of studies left—they’d manage.
Then came the morning sickness. Mum grew irritable, exhausted, repelled by food smells. Dad started lingering late at the halls with mates. Arguments flared, but they made up fast—especially once the nausea passed.
Then I arrived. Sleepless nights, fatigue, and lectures didn’t mix. Grandma and Grandpa took turns babysitting so Mum could finish her degree. She often skipped class, aching from unused milk.
Her stress poured into me. I cried constantly, only slept in arms. My parents leapt at any chance to leave me with someone—just to breathe, maybe nap in lectures.
Love wasn’t enough. Patience wore thin. Petty grievances stacked up—who did what, who didn’t. Dad vanished into the halls again, coming home late to fresh fights.
Eventually, they graduated. Dad got a job. Money improved, I started nursery, Mum worked too—until I kept falling ill. She burned through sick days. Grandma and Grandpa were still working, no help there. Life kept tossing hurdles. Dad stayed late more often…
Then, one night, he came home to another row.
“Enough!” he shouted. “I can’t do this. Marrying you was a mistake. I love someone else.” Just like that, he packed and left.
I don’t remember it—too young. I pieced it together later from Mum’s rants, Grandma’s whispers, my own realisations.
Not every young marriage survives the grind. After Dad left, Mum changed. She wept often, took her pain out on me.
Spilled tea? Dropped biscuits? “Clumsy, just like your father,” she’d snap. I grew up believing Dad left because I was bad. The guilt stuck.
“Other girls stay clean, but you? Always filthy. Useless, like him.”
My mere existence seemed to irritate her. Grandma said I looked just like him—cruel luck.
My life’s mission became not upsetting Mum. Less than top marks devastated me. I worked myself ragged to please her. It never worked.
My handwriting was messy.
“Chicken scratch, like your father’s.” So I practised for hours, giving up playtime. I perfected it—not that Mum noticed.
Then she remarried. It was easier—she ignored me now. Uncle Mark often slipped into my room, helped with homework, played with me until she called him away.
Once, he asked, “Baby brother or sister?” I wanted neither—just to be loved. “Brother,” I said. He smiled, ruffled my hair. Mum never did that. My heart swelled.
The days Mum was in hospital having Toby were my happiest. Just Uncle Mark and me—no shouting. I started calling him Dad. Then she came home with a tiny bundle, and everything changed.
I hated Toby. Helpless, screaming, stealing Dad’s attention too. Once he could toddle, he trailed after me on chubby legs. If he fell, Mum blamed me.
All her pride was for him—his daily “achievements,” never mine. Only Dad asked about school. That’s when the thought took root: *Without Toby, he’d love only me.* Not a thought, really—a dark, wordless pull.
The summer I turned nine, we went to Brighton. Glorious—endless sea, golden sand, cloudless sky. I swam, collected shells, built castles far from crowds.
One afternoon, Mum napped under a wide hat. Dad read beside her. Sweltering heat.
“Can I swim?” I asked.
Toby begged to come. Dad warned me to watch him, stay shallow.
I hadn’t planned it. We waded in, hand in hand. I glanced back—Mum dozing, Dad reading. Water reached Toby’s chest. I let go.
He stopped, looked up.
“Dolphins,” I lied, pointing offshore.
He stepped forward—into a dip. A wave swallowed him. I didn’t move. Just watched him thrash, choke. His head broke surface once—confusion, not fear, in his eyes—then under again.
Terror hit. I fled, screaming. Dad sprinted past me, dragged Toby out. He’d only swallowed water. But Dad’s look—*I knew*—burned me alive. Disappointment.
I begged him not to tell Mum. He never did. Toby babbled about dolphins. Dad never left us alone again. He didn’t trust me.
I nearly killed my brother. The guilt never left. He forgot—or forgave.
I aced school, fled to university in Edinburgh. Classmates thought me studious, shy. Really, I was just a broken, unloved girl, wary of boys.
At graduation, Toby finished school, desperate to follow me. I never understood why he adored me.
We shared a flat, parents chipping in. My hatred melted—I loved him fiercely. Handsome, kind.
Then he got a girlfriend. Grandma left her a flat. When parents visited, I’d call him back for appearances.
He became my only family.
***
“Hi!” I called, spotting Toby by the café window.
He kissed my cheek—to outsiders, we might’ve been lovers. “Got your usual coffee and scones.”
“Thanks. Not hungry, though.”
He wolfed his down. I slid my plate to him.
“So, Mum’s birthday?”
“Kat and I have an idea. She’ll love it. But I can’t cover it alone. You in?”
“Obviously.”
Mum always thanked me for gifts, then set them aside. Toby’s silly trinkets? Treasured. I didn’t care anymore. I promised to transfer my share.
“It’s from both of us,” he said.
I nodded. We planned the trip home. Then Toby leaned in.
“That bloke can’t stop staring at you.” He winked. “Gotta run. Dessert’s on me.” He dashed off.
Cheeky. He knows I can’t resist ice cream. A chocolate sundae arrived—then the man from my office sat down. That’s how I met my husband.
I stopped fearing Mum, stopped craving her approval. I grew up.
They say daughters relive their mothers’ lives. Not true. Maybe I’ve got her in me—but I’ll love *my* children, no matter what. I’ll make sure of it.
