Mum always held up my older sister as the shining example, but her birthday was the final straw.
From the time I was little, I knew I’d always be second best in Mum’s eyes. Not the worst—just second. Behind someone more deserving, more accomplished, more “proper.” Behind my big sister, Gemma. And fine, every family has its favourites—but Mum turned our differences into a never-ending drama where I played the hapless underdog, and Gemma was her golden child on a pedestal.
For as long as I can remember, I tried. Tried to prove to Mum that I was worth something too. That I wasn’t worse. That I deserved her pride, her love, her warm glance. But every step forward just melted into thin air. I brought home awards from school competitions—silence. Got into a top uni on full scholarship—”Well, Gemma passed without a single C, now that’s an achievement.” Landed a job after graduation—”Gemma’s already married, and you’re still shuffling paperwork.” She’s got a baby; I’ve got a mortgage. She’s got a family; I’ve got “pointless ambitions.” Every time I said, “I did it!” Mum just shrugged, “So?”
It hurt. All the time. Like I had to constantly justify simply being who I was. Like my efforts weren’t enough unless I turned into her—into Gemma. Like my love wasn’t enough for Mum to see me, not just as the “other daughter,” but just… her daughter. Still, I put up with it. Put up with it and kept hoping that maybe one day… she’d finally notice.
Last autumn, Mum retired. Money was tight, her health wasn’t great. I covered her bills, bought her medicine, made sure she had food. Helped however I could, even though I was barely scraping by myself. A month ago, I completely renovated her flat—new wiring, fresh wallpaper, a brand-new cooker. Spent every penny I had. Just wanted her to be comfortable.
Three days later was her birthday. I couldn’t afford a gift. Not a single quid left. But I showed up—flowers, cake, heartfelt words. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, wished her health. And then… She stood in the middle of her guests and asked, loud enough for everyone:
“Where’s my present? Don’t you know it’s rude to come empty-handed on someone’s birthday?”
The room froze. I’ve never been so humiliated—couldn’t even speak. And it hit me: that was it. The last straw. No more reaching for a sun that refuses to warm me. No more begging for love that might never have been meant for me.
I’m not angry. Just tired. And now I know—from today on, I’m living for myself. Not for Mum’s praise, not to measure up to the “perfect sister,” not for approval. My money, my energy, my time—none of it will be wasted on someone who only ever sees me as “not Gemma.”
Sometimes, to learn how to love yourself, you’ve got to stop proving it to others. Even to the ones who gave you life.
