**Diary Entry**
Mum always held my older sister up as the standard I should meet. But her birthday was the final straw.
Ever since I was little, I felt like second best to Mum. Not last—just second. Always behind someone more deserving, more successful, more “right.” Always behind my sister, Alice. And that might’ve been fine—every family has its differences—but Mum made those differences into a script where I was the eternal loser, and Alice was the golden girl on a pedestal.
I tried. God, how I tried. I wanted to prove I was worth something, that I wasn’t less. That I deserved her pride, her love, even just a warm glance. But every step forward vanished into silence. I brought home certificates from school competitions—nothing. I got into a top uni on merit—*”Alice graduated with honours, that’s a real achievement.”* I landed a job after uni—*”Alice is already married, and you’re still shuffling papers.”* She had a child; I had a mortgage. She had a family; I had *”pointless ambitions.”* Every time I said, *”I did it,”* Mum tossed back, *”So what?”*
It hurt. Constantly. Like I had to apologise for who I was. Like my effort meant nothing because I wasn’t her—Alice. Like my love wasn’t enough for Mum to see me, not as *”the other daughter,”* just as her daughter. But I endured. I kept hoping that one day… she’d care.
Last autumn, Mum retired. Money was tight, her health shaky. I took over the bills, bought her medicine, groceries—helped however I could, even when I was barely scraping by myself. A month ago, I paid for a full renovation of her flat—new wiring, wallpaper, a proper cooker. Spent every last pound I had. Just wanted her to be comfortable.
Three days later was her birthday. I couldn’t afford a gift. Not a single penny left. But I went—with flowers, a cake, heartfelt words. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, wished her health. And she… she stood up in front of everyone and asked—loudly—*”Where’s my present? Don’t you know you don’t come empty-handed to a birthday?”*
The room froze. I’d never felt such shame. I had no words. And now I understand—that was it. The last straw. I won’t reach for her anymore, like a sun that gives no warmth. I won’t beg for love that was never meant for me.
I’m not angry. Just tired. And I know now: from today, I live for myself. Not for Mum’s praise, not to measure up to *”perfect Alice,”* not for approval. My money, my energy, my time—won’t be wasted on someone who sees nothing in me except *”not Alice.”*
Sometimes, learning to love yourself starts with stopping the need to prove it to others. Even the ones who gave you life.
