I’ve been humiliated my whole life, and now they expect me to care for my sick mother.
My name is Emily, and I was the last and unwanted child in a large family. Besides me, my parents had four other children—two brothers and two sisters. Mum never let me forget I wasn’t planned. “Had to go through with it—too late to do otherwise,” she’d say, and those words burned like a hot iron. From childhood, I felt like an outsider, unwanted—a mistake they were forced to tolerate. That pain followed me every day, poisoning everything.
We lived in a small town near Manchester. My parents only took pride in the eldest sons, James and Thomas. They were their pride and joy—top marks in school, first-class degrees, prestigious jobs in London. Both were long married, their children enrolled in elite private schools. I barely knew them—by the time I was born, they’d already left for university. My sisters, Charlotte and Victoria, were Mum’s favourites too. They married well—one even became a famous singer. Big houses, expensive cars, kids in posh schools. Mum bragged about them to everyone, while calling me a loser.
My sisters hated me. They had to look after me as kids but never missed a chance to belittle me. “You’ll never be as good as us,” they’d sneer. When guests came over, Mum would pull out photo albums of the older kids, gushing over their achievements, but when it came to me—”Emily? Oh, she’s not done much, barely scraped through school.” I tried hard, but no one noticed. After school, I trained as a seamstress, got my diploma, and worked in a small shop. I loved sewing—it brought me joy and a decent wage. But my parents scoffed. “A seamstress? That’s not a proper job.” I moved out, lived in a hostel, then rented a flat just to escape their jibes.
Years later, I met David. He saved me. We married, had a daughter, Lily. For the first time, I was happy. Then fate struck—David and Lily died in a car crash. My heart shattered. I was left alone, hollow, with no hope. My family didn’t comfort me. Not a call, not a word—like my pain didn’t exist. My coworkers at the shop became my only support. For ten years, I buried myself in work, trying to forget the day I lost everything.
Recently, a man named Oliver came into my life. He’s kind, but I’m not ready—the old wounds run too deep. Just as I tentatively began opening up again, my family suddenly remembered me. Dad died years ago, and now Mum’s bedridden. She needs care, but my so-called “successful” siblings won’t spare the time. They rang me like I was their last resort. “You’ve got nothing better to do—look after Mum. At least you’ll be useful for once,” my brothers said. My sisters agreed: “You owe her. It’s your duty.”
I was stunned. These people spent my whole life putting me down, calling me worthless, mocking my dreams. They never once stood by me in my darkest hours—now they demand I drop everything to care for a mother who never loved me? The woman who openly regretted having me, who praised everyone but me? I refused. “Sort it out yourselves,” I said, steel in my voice. Then came the threats—James and Thomas yelled they’d cut me out of the will, Charlotte and Victoria swore they’d shame me publicly. But I don’t care. Their words can’t hurt me anymore—I’ve endured too much.
My heart aches, not from their threats, but from knowing I was never family to them. They saw me as a burden—now, a free nurse. I won’t return to the world where they trampled me. Let Mum be cared for by her precious “successful” children. I’ll live for myself now. Oliver wants us to start fresh, and maybe I’ll say yes. But one thing’s certain—I won’t let my family break me again. They’ve lost me forever, and that’s their choice, not mine.
