I’ve been looked down on my whole life, and now they expect me to care for my sick mother.
My name’s Emily. I was the last and unwanted child in a big family—four siblings ahead of me, two brothers and two sisters. Mum never let me forget I wasn’t planned. “Had to go through with it, was too late to do anything else,” she’d say, and those words burned like a hot iron. From the start, I felt like an outsider, like a mistake they just had to put up with. That pain stayed with me, poisoning every day.
We lived in a little town outside of Manchester. My parents only ever bragged about my older brothers, William and James. They were the pride of the family—top marks in school, first-class degrees, fancy jobs in London. Both married young, their kids in private schools. I barely knew them—they’d already left for uni when I was born. My sisters, Charlotte and Sophie, were Mum’s favourites too. They married well, one even became a singer with a bit of fame—big houses, flash cars, kids at posh schools. Mum showed them off to everyone, while I was just the “disappointment.”
My sisters couldn’t stand me. They had to babysit me growing up, but never missed a chance to cut me down. “You’ll never be as good as us,” they’d sneer. When guests came over, Mum would pull out photo albums of the older kids, gushing about their achievements, then shrug when it came to me: “Emily? She barely scrapes by.” I tried my hardest, but no one noticed. After school, I trained as a seamstress, got my qualification, and found work at a little shop. I loved sewing—it gave me joy, and I made decent money. But my parents just scoffed. “A seamstress? That’s not a proper job.” I moved out, lived in a flat share, then rented my own place just to escape their digs.
Years later, I met David. He was my lifeline. We married, had a daughter, Lily. For the first time, I was happy. Then life ripped it all away—David and Lily died in a car crash. My heart shattered. I was alone, hollow, with no hope left. My family didn’t lift a finger. Not a call, not a word of comfort—like my grief didn’t even exist. The only people who kept me going were the girls at the shop. For ten years, I buried myself in work, trying not to remember the day I lost everything.
Recently, a man named Oliver started showing interest. He’s kind, but I’m not ready—the wounds run too deep. Just as I’m daring to open up again, my family suddenly remembers I exist. Dad passed years ago, and now Mum’s bedridden. She needs care, but my oh-so-successful siblings can’t be bothered. They rang me like I was their last resort. “You’ve got nothing better to do—sort Mum out. At least make yourself useful,” my brothers snapped. My sisters chimed in: “You owe her this.”
I was stunned. These people spent my whole life belittling me, calling me worthless, laughing at my dreams. They abandoned me in my darkest hour, and now they expect me to drop everything for a mother who never loved me? The same woman who wished she’d never had me, who praised everyone but me? I said no. “Sort it yourselves,” I told them, voice steady. Then came the threats—brothers yelling they’d cut me out of the will, sisters vowing to ruin my name. But I don’t care. Their words don’t hurt anymore—I’ve taken enough.
My heart aches, but not from their threats. It aches because I was never family to them. They saw me as a burden then, and now, a free nurse. I won’t go back to a world where they walked all over me. Let Mum get her care from the golden children she adored. As for me? I’m living for myself now. Oliver’s talking about a fresh start, and maybe I’ll say yes. But one thing’s certain—I won’t let them break me again. They lost me for good, and that’s on them, not me.
