All my life, I wished to be in my brother’s shoes, but soon everything changed.
My mum got pregnant with me at eighteen. My dad left as soon as he found out; he wasn’t interested in a family, just endless parties and mates. Mum’s parents, my grandparents, were furious. In our small town near Liverpool, a child without a husband was seen as a disgrace, and Grandpa threw her out, shouting, “I don’t want to see such an irresponsible daughter!” I can’t even begin to imagine how it was for her—young, alone, with a baby. But she stood strong: she enrolled in a distance learning course, found a job, and worked tirelessly. She got a room in a hostel, and we started our life together. I had to grow up faster than most kids—shopping, cleaning, heating up food. Playing? There was no time for that. From a young age, I was her support, her only man.
I never complained—I was proud of it. But soon, Victor came into our lives. I liked him; he brought sweets, treated us to nice things, and cared for Mum. She blossomed around him, and one day she said, “Victor and I are getting married, and we’ll move into a bigger house.” I was thrilled—I dreamed of having a proper dad, and hoped Victor would be that for me. At first, it was like a fairy tale. I had my own space, I could relax, listen to music, read books. Victor helped Mum, and she was overjoyed.
Then she announced she was expecting a baby. Soon after, Victor said, “You’ll have to move into the cupboard under the stairs, Stan. It’ll be the nursery.” I didn’t get it: the house had plenty of rooms, why me? The next day, my things were already crammed into a tiny space where barely a bed fitted. It felt unfair, but I kept quiet—I was used to enduring.
When little Mikey was born, the nightmare began. His crying kept me awake, I was like a zombie. My grades at school dropped, teachers scolded me, and Mum snapped, “You should be a role model for your brother! Stop embarrassing us, you lazybones!” Mikey grew up, and I got more duties—taking him for walks, pushing the pram around. The other kids laughed at me, and I’d blush from shame but said nothing. All the best toys, clothes—everything went to Mikey. I’d ask for something for myself, and Victor would dryly reply, “We have no money.” I’d take Mikey to nursery, pick him up, feed him, clean the house—living in hope he’d grow up and I’d be free.
Mikey started school, and Mum told me to help him with his homework. He was spoiled, stubborn—his schoolwork was terrible, and my attempts to reason with him ended with him complaining to Mum. She always took his side, and I’d get scolded, “You’re older, you should be more patient!” He was shuffled from school to school but failed everywhere. Eventually, they put him in a private one, where they turned a blind eye to his bad grades for money. I went to a technical college to become a mechanic—not because I wanted to, but to escape home.
Then came distance courses, work—I labored day and night, saving for my own place. I got married, found peace. And Mikey? Victor gave him a flat, but he still lives with our parents, lets the place, and squanders the money. He refuses to work, lazing in front of the telly. One New Year, we gathered at our parents’. His current girlfriend, Lena, came along. I accidentally overheard them chatting in the kitchen.
“You’re lucky with your brother,” she told my wife, Tania. “Stan’s so hardworking, responsible. Why isn’t Mikey like that? I ask him to move in together, start a family, but he just sticks with his mum. He’s got rent money, but what’s the point?”
“Yeah, Stan’s a gem,” Tania smiled. “Ditch Mikey, he’s not worth it. He’d make a poor husband.”
I froze. Mikey swapped girlfriends like gloves, but none stayed long—Mum drove them all away, considering them unworthy of her “golden boy.” And he didn’t resist, living in his lazy cocoon. That’s when I realized: I no longer envied him. Everything I once dreamed of—being in his place—turned out to be hollow. Life gave me challenges, but it also rewarded me for them. I have a family, a loving wife, a daughter, and a home I built with my own hands. I am proud of myself, and for the first time in my life, I’m not sorry I’m not Mikey. My life is my victory, hard-earned and real.
