Mum always held up my older sister as the example to follow, but her birthday was the last straw.
Ever since I was little, I’ve felt second-best to Mum—not last, just second, always behind someone better, more accomplished, more “proper.” Behind my older sister, Annabelle. And it wouldn’t have been so bad—after all, every family has its differences. But Mum turned those differences into a play where I was the eternal underdog, and Annabelle was the golden girl on a pedestal.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried. Tried to prove to Mum that I’m worth something too, that I’m not worse—that I deserve her pride, her love, her warm glance. But every step forward was met with nothing. I brought home certificates from school competitions—silence. I got into a top university on a full scholarship—”Annabelle graduated without a single B, now that’s an achievement.” I landed a job after uni—”Annabelle’s already married, and you’re still running around with paperwork.” She has a child; I have a mortgage. She has a family; I have “pointless ambitions.” Every “I did it” of mine shattered against Mum’s “so what?”
It hurt. Constantly. Like I always had to justify who I was. Like my efforts weren’t enough unless I was just like her—Annabelle. Like my love wasn’t enough to make Mum see me not as the “other daughter,” but simply as her daughter. Still, I put up with it. Endured it, clinging to the hope that someday… she’d appreciate me.
Last autumn, Mum retired. Money was tight, and her health wasn’t great. I covered her bills, her medicine, her groceries. I helped as much as I could, even though I could barely make ends meet myself. A month ago, I arranged a full renovation of her flat—rewired the electrics, put up new wallpaper, bought 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 present—not a single pound left. But I turned up anyway with flowers, a cake, and heartfelt words. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, wished her good health. And then… She stood up in front of everyone and asked loudly, “Where’s my gift? Don’t you know it’s rude to show up empty-handed on someone’s birthday?”
The whole room fell silent. I’ve never felt so ashamed. I didn’t know what to say. And only now do I see it—that was the last straw. Enough. I won’t keep reaching for her like the sun that never warms me. I won’t keep striving for a love that was never meant to be mine.
I’m not angry. I’m just tired. And now I know for certain—from today, I’m living for myself. Not for Mum’s praise, not to compete with the “perfect sister,” not for approval. My money, my energy, my time—they won’t be wasted on someone who sees nothing in me except “not Annabelle.”
Sometimes, learning to love yourself means no longer trying to prove it to others. Even the ones who gave you life.
