My sister was always adored, while I felt like a mistake to my parents…
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always felt like an outsider in my own family. I was never hugged just because, never asked how I was, never praised or defended. My mum was blunt with me: “You weren’t planned. I only got married because I got pregnant with you. Your father and I never intended to live together, but had to.” I heard those words from a young age. They burned my soul and hurt deeply.
I was only three years old when she came into the house—Isabella. From birth, my sister received everything: attention, care, love. She had the prettiest dresses, the brightest toys, and the best treats. At any time, she could ask for money for an ice cream, and she’d get it. She could throw tantrums, be rude, break things—and my parents would just smile lovingly. And me? I had to sit straight. I wasn’t allowed anything. Even a step sideways earned a stern rebuke, “Shame on you! Look at how smart Isabella is, and you…”
I grew up overshadowed by the blue-eyed angel everyone doted on. I had to be mature from a young age. I protected myself at school, learned my lessons, and dealt with grievances on my own. No one cared about what was happening inside me, how I was doing. I became invisible.
When I turned twenty, I couldn’t take it any longer. I packed my things and left. Just to another city. No drama, no scenes. My parents didn’t even ask where I was going. They didn’t call the next day, or the week after. My friends, classmates, and colleagues called me. But not them. Sometimes I’d call them myself. In return, I got indifference, strained politeness. Like I was a stranger.
Then I met him—the man who loved me not for a facade but for who I truly was. He proposed. We had a modest wedding and I gave birth to two wonderful children. He stood by my side through every hardship, providing support, love, and care. For the first time in my life, I felt needed. Truly needed.
Isabella stayed with our parents all this time. Polished, pretty, picky. As long as I can remember, no one was ever good enough for her. Suitors came and went. No one fit her standards. Always dissatisfied, always critical.
Then one day, my father fell ill. I received a call. Of course, I didn’t turn away. As a daughter, I helped—I sent money every month, even when I wasn’t in the best position. My husband never reproached me for it. He understood how important it was for me to help. My parents weren’t perfect, but I am a person. I have a conscience.
Then Isabella came to me. She sat down, fidgeted, had a look around, and out of nowhere said, “You’re not sending enough money. You live the high life. We gave you everything as a child, and now you can’t even give back the basics.”
I listened in disbelief. Tell me, what did you give me? Where is this happy childhood you speak of? Those funds, that care? I scrubbed ovens in others’ homes to buy myself boots! I babysat your kids for a slice of bread while you and Mum holidayed at the seaside!
She tried to paint me as the enemy, to win over my husband’s trust, to manipulate through pity. I saw her eyes assessing every nook of our home, seeking grounds to take more—not for Dad, but for herself.
I didn’t cause a scene. I simply transferred more money than usual but wrote one thing: “I hope now you won’t remember me with demands or reproaches. Just forget about me. I never asked for love. But at least leave my family alone.”
I don’t know if forgiveness is possible. Perhaps if there was something to forgive. But over the years—not a single acknowledgment, not a single “I’m sorry,” not a single “You matter to us.” Only demands. Only expectations. I’m tired of paying for my birth. For coming into this world unplanned. Because I am a living person. A woman. A mother. A sister.
Tell me… would you forgive?
