Mother always held my elder sister up as an example—her birthday was the final straw.
From childhood, I felt like second best to Mother—not the worst, no, but never the first. Always trailing behind someone more accomplished, more deserving, more “proper.” Behind my elder sister, Evelyn. And it might have been bearable—after all, every family has differences. But Mother turned those differences into a play where I was the eternal disappointment, and Evelyn the golden child on a pedestal.
As long as I could remember, I tried. Tried to prove to Mother that I was worth something too. That I wasn’t less. That I deserved her pride, her love, her warm glance. But every step forward crumbled into silence. I brought home certificates from competitions—no word in return. I got into a prestigious university on scholarship—”Evelyn never had a single B, now that’s an achievement.” I landed a job after graduation—”Evelyn’s married already, and you’re still running about with paperwork.” She had a child—I had a mortgage. She had a family—I had “pointless ambitions.” Every “I did it” shattered against Mother’s “so what?”
It hurt. Constantly. As if I had to justify who I was, over and over. As if my efforts weren’t enough because I wasn’t like her—Evelyn. As if my love wasn’t enough to make Mother see me not as “the other daughter,” but simply as her daughter. Still, I endured. Endured and clung to hope that one day… she’d see.
Last autumn, Mother retired. Money was tight, her health uncertain. I took on her bills, medicines, groceries. I helped as best I could, though I barely scraped by myself. A month ago, I paid for a full renovation of her flat—new wiring, fresh wallpaper, a modern cooker. Drained every last penny. Just so she’d be comfortable.
Three days later was her birthday. I hadn’t a shilling left for a gift. But I came—flowers in hand, a cake, words from the heart. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, wished her health. And she… She stood before the guests and asked, loud enough for all:
“Where’s my present? Don’t you know it’s rude to come empty-handed?”
The room fell silent. Shame burned hotter than ever. I had no answer. Only now do I understand—that was the final straw. Enough. No more straining toward a sun that gives no warmth. No more begging for love that was never mine to claim.
I’m not angry. I’m tired. And at last I know: from this day, I live for myself. Not for Mother’s praise, not to measure up to the “perfect sister,” not for approval. My money, my strength, my time—won’t be spent on one who sees nothing in me but “not Evelyn.”
Sometimes, to learn to love yourself, you must stop proving it to others. Even those who gave you life.
