**The Unloved Daughter**
I was nearly home when my phone rang from inside my bag. I fumbled for it and answered my brother’s call.
“Hey, Toby,” I said, unapologetically using his childhood nickname, though he’d long outgrown it, taller than me now and all grown up.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminded me. Just as well—I had forgotten.
“Course not,” I lied smoothly. “Got her a present yet?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Fancy meeting up to discuss?”
“Sure. Come over, or we could grab lunch at that café near work?” I suggested.
“Sorted. See you there at noon. Ring me if plans change, yeah? Cheers.” And with that, Anthony hung up.
I adore my little brother. He’s the closest person in my life—not Mum, him. It terrifies me now to remember there was a time I wanted him dead. The guilt never leaves, especially when I see him. Shame, too. I’d never forgive myself if I’d done it. But back then…
***
My parents were at university, inseparable, utterly besotted. Nowhere to be alone—Mum lived with her parents, Dad in halls. The only solution? Get married. When they announced it, there were sighs, pleading to wait, tears—none of it worked. Young love was stubborn, and they fought for their right to be together. Reluctantly, her parents gave in.
Mum’s never been one to back down. She convinced them to skip a grand wedding, using the savings to rent a flat instead. No way they’d crowd into her parents’ cramped house. Fair enough.
At first, newlyweds, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They’d stumble into lectures exhausted, radiating happiness, convinced their love would last forever. As if life wouldn’t test them. How naïve.
Then came the inevitable—Mum got pregnant. A shock, their first real challenge. They handled it well, though. Just a year and a half left of studies. They’d manage.
But Mum turned irritable. Morning sickness wrecked her. The smell of food made her ill; cooking was impossible. Dad started lingering in the pub with mates. Arguments flared, quick reconciliations followed—until the nausea faded, and she cooked again.
Then I arrived. Sleepless nights, fatigue, relentless coursework. Mum’s parents took turns on leave to watch me so she could graduate. She’d duck out of lectures, breasts aching with milk.
Her exhaustion seeped into me. I wailed unless held. My parents leapt at any chance to pass me off and escape to lectures—maybe nap there. Love or not, they were impatient, inexperienced. Petty grievances piled up. Dad vanished to the pub more often, returning late to fresh rows.
Diplomas in hand, Dad started work. Money improved; sleepless nights ended. I was old enough for nursery, Mum went back to work—then I got sick. Constant sick leave. Her parents, still working, couldn’t help. Life kept testing them. Dad started working late…
One night, he came home past midnight. Another row erupted.
“Enough!” he shouted. “This was a mistake. We rushed it. I’m in love with someone else.” Just like that, he packed a bag and left.
I don’t remember it—too young. Mum and Gran filled in gaps; the rest I pieced together later.
Not every marriage survives reality. After Dad left, Mum changed. She wept often, took her pain out on me.
Spilled tea? Dropped biscuits? “You’re as useless as your father,” she’d snap. I grew up believing he left because I was bad. The guilt stuck.
“Other girls are tidy, but you? A mess. Just like him.”
My mere existence seemed to irritate her. Gran said I looked just like Dad—cruel luck.
Pleasing Mum became my life’s goal. Less than an A was a disaster. I tried so hard. But nothing worked.
“Your handwriting’s a scrawl. Like your father’s.”
So I’d practice for hours, skipping playtime. I mastered neat writing—but she never noticed.
Then she remarried. A relief—she ignored me now. Uncle Dave would play with me, help with homework, until she called him away.
Once, he asked, “Want a brother or sister?” I didn’t. I just wanted to be loved. “A brother,” I said. He smiled, ruffled my hair—something Mum never did. My heart swelled with gratitude.
The days Mum spent in hospital after Toby’s birth were my happiest. Just Uncle Dave and me—no shouting. I started calling him Dad. Then she returned with a tiny bundle, and everything changed.
I hated Toby. Helpless, screaming, stealing Dad’s attention. When he toddled after me, wobbling on chubby legs, I felt no joy. If he fell, Mum would snap at me.
He got all the love. Mum bragged about his tiny “achievements,” forgetting me. Only Dad asked about school. That’s when the thought crept in—if Toby were gone, Dad would love only me. Not a plan, just a shadow of an idea.
The summer I turned nine, Toby nearly three, we went to Brighton. Glorious—endless sea, golden sand, cloudless sky. We strayed from the crowds.
One afternoon, Mum napped under a wide sunhat. Dad read beside her. Sweltering heat.
“Can I swim?” I asked.
Toby clamoured to join. Dad warned me to keep an eye on him, stay shallow.
I didn’t plan it. We waded in. Toby gripped my hand, brave as the water reached his chest. I glanced back—Mum still napping, Dad reading. Deeper we went. Then I let go.
He stopped, looked up.
“Dolphins!” I pointed.
He stepped into a dip, a wave swallowed him. I didn’t move. Just watched him thrash, choke. For a second, his head broke the surface—eyes wide, confused. Then under again.
Fear hit me like a train. I sprinted for shore, screaming. Dad was already running. He shoved past me, hauled Toby out.
He’d swallowed water, nothing worse. But Dad’s look—I wished the earth would swallow me whole. Disappointment. Disgust.
I begged him not to tell Mum. He didn’t. Toby babbled about dolphins. But Dad never left us alone again. He didn’t trust me.
That’s how I nearly killed my brother. The guilt never left. He forgot. Or forgave.
I graduated top of my class, could’ve gone anywhere. Chose Edinburgh—as far as possible.
Classmates thought me quiet, studious. Really, I was just unloved, closed-off. Avoided boys entirely.
By my graduation, Toby was finishing school. He begged to join me in Edinburgh. I never understood why he adored me so.
Parents agreed. We shared a flat, their help funding it. My hatred melted—I loved him fiercely. Handsome, kind, my brother.
Eventually, he got a girlfriend. Gran left her a flat; they moved in. When parents visited, I’d call him back for appearances.
He became my only family.
***
“Hey!” I waved, spotting Toby by the café window.
He stood, kissed my cheek—we could’ve passed for a couple. “Got your usual coffee and scones,” he said.
“Ta. Not hungry, though.”
He wolfed his scones like a starved pup. I slid mine over.
“Birthday plans?” I asked.
“Kat and I have an idea. Mum’ll love it, but I can’t swing it alone. You in?”
“Obviously.”
Mum always thanked me for gifts, then set them aside. Toby’s silly trinkets? She’d gush. I stopped minding. Why bother competing? I promised to transfer my share.
“It’s from both of us,” he said.
I nodded, smiling. We chatted about the trip home. Then Toby leaned in.
“That bloke’s been staring. Play nice,” he teased, standing. “Got to dash. Oh—ice cream’s coming.”
Cheeky git. Knows I can’t resist. The waiter brought chocolate scoops just as a man approached—someone from my office. That’s how I met my husband.
I stopped fearing Mum, begging for scraps of love. I grew up.
People say daughters repeat their mothers’ mistakes. Rubbish. I might have her temper, her stubbornness. But one thing’s certain—I’ll love my children fiercely, no matter what. And I’ll make damn sure they know it.
