My sister was always adored, while I was just the result of a youthful mistake…
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like an outsider in my own family. I was never hugged without reason, never asked how I was doing, never praised or protected. My mother used to tell me bluntly, “You weren’t planned. I only got married because I got pregnant with you. Your father and I never intended to live together, but we had to.” I heard these words from childhood, and they burned into my soul, wounding me deeply.
I was just three years old when she came along—Alice. From the start, my sister received everything: attention, care, love. She had the prettiest dresses, the most vibrant toys, the best treats. She could ask for money for ice cream at any time, and she’d get it. She could be picky, rude, even break things, and our parents would just smile endearingly. And me? I had to toe the line. I wasn’t allowed anything. Even one step to the side was met with, “Shame! Look how clever Alice is, and you…”
I grew up in her shadow. The shadow of a blue-eyed angel adored by the entire household. From a young age, I had to be mature. I defended myself at school, did my homework independently, and dealt with frustrations on my own. No one was interested in what I was feeling or how I was coping. I became invisible.
By the time I turned twenty, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I packed my bags and moved away. Simply 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 next week. Friends, classmates, colleagues called. But not them. Sometimes, I would call them. In return, there was indifference, forced politeness. As if I was a stranger.
Then he came into my life—a man who loved me for my true self, not a facade. He proposed, and we had a modest wedding. I gave him two beautiful children. He stood by me through every hardship, supporting, loving, and caring. For the first time, I felt truly needed.
Alice continued living with my parents all those years. Well-groomed, beautiful, picky. No one ever seemed good enough for her. Suitors came and went; none were suitable. Always dissatisfied, always critical.
One day, my father fell ill. They called me. As a daughter, I didn’t turn away. I helped—sent money every month, even when I wasn’t in the best situation myself. My husband never reproached me for it. He understood how important it was for me to help. Even though my parents weren’t ideal, I am human. I have a conscience.
Then Alice came to me. She sat at the table, fidgeted, looked around—then out of the blue: “You aren’t sending enough money. You’re living the high life. We gave you everything growing up, and now you can’t even give back the basics.”
I listened in disbelief. What did you give me, I thought? Where is this wonderful childhood you speak of? That money, that care? I was the one cleaning other people’s houses to afford my boots! I babysat other people’s children for a slice of bread while you and Mum vacationed by the seaside!
She tried to make me the villain, to ingratiate herself with my husband, to manipulate with pity. I could see her eyes appraising every corner of our home, looking for reasons to claim more. Not for our father, but for herself.
I didn’t make a scene. I simply sent more money than usual. But I wrote one thing: “I hope now you won’t bother me with demands or complaints. Just forget. I never asked for love, but at least leave my family alone.”
I don’t know if forgiveness is possible. Maybe if there was something to forgive. But in all these years—not a single admission, not one “I’m sorry,” not one “You’re important to us.” Just demands. Just expectations. I’m tired of paying for my birth. For coming into this world unexpectedly. Yet I’m a living person. A woman. A mother. A sister.
Tell me… would you forgive?
