Mum always held up my older sister as the example to follow, but her birthday was the final straw.
From childhood, I felt like second best in Mum’s eyes—not unloved, just second. Always behind someone more worthy, more successful, more “right.” Behind my older sister, Eleanor. 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 cast as the eternal failure and Eleanor as the golden girl on a pedestal.
For as long as I could remember, I tried. I 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 smile. But every step forward vanished into thin air. I brought home certificates from school competitions—silence in return. I earned a place at a top university on a full scholarship—”Eleanor graduated without a single B, now *that’s* an achievement.” I landed a job after uni—”Eleanor’s already married, and you’re still running around with paperwork.” She had a child—I had a mortgage. She had a family—I had “pointless ambitions.” Every “I did it” shattered against Mum’s “so what?”
It hurt. Constantly. As if I had to justify who I was, every single day. As if my efforts meant nothing because I wasn’t like *her*—Eleanor. As if my love wasn’t enough for Mum to see me not just as “the other daughter,” but simply as her daughter. Still, I endured. Hoping that someday… she’d notice.
Last autumn, Mum retired. Money was tight, and her health wasn’t the best. I took on her bills—utilities, medicine, groceries. I helped where I could, even if I was barely managing myself. A month ago, I renovated her flat—rewired, repapered the walls, bought a new cooker. I spent every penny I had, just wanting her to be comfortable.
Three days later, it was her birthday. I couldn’t afford a gift—not a single pound left. But I went—with flowers, with cake, with heartfelt words. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, wished her good health. And then… She stood in front of everyone and asked loudly,
“Where’s my present? Don’t you know you don’t come to a birthday empty-handed?”
The room went silent. I’ve never felt so ashamed. I didn’t know what to say. And only now do I realise—that was the final straw. Enough. I won’t reach for her anymore, like sunbeams that never warm me. I won’t keep trying to earn love that was never meant for me.
I’m not angry. Just tired. And now I know—from this day on, I’ll live for *me*. Not for Mum’s praise, not to measure up to “perfect Eleanor,” not for approval. My money, my effort, my time—they won’t be wasted on someone who only sees me as “not Eleanor.”
Sometimes, learning to love yourself means stopping the chase for validation—even from the people who gave you life.
