My entire life has been one long humiliation, and now they expect me to care for my sick mother?
I, Katherine, was the last and very much unwanted child in a large family. Besides me, my parents had four others—two brothers and two sisters. Mum never let me forget I was an accident. “Had to go through with it, too late to do otherwise,” she’d say, and those words burned like a hot iron. From childhood, I felt like an outsider, an inconvenience—like a mistake they simply tolerated. That pain clung to me, poisoning every day.
We lived in a small town near Manchester. My parents reserved their pride for my older brothers, William and Edward—top of their class, first-class degrees, high-flying careers in London. Both married young, their kids in elite private schools. I barely knew them; by the time I was born, they’d already left for university. My sisters, Charlotte and Victoria, were Mum’s darlings—married well, one even became a moderately famous singer. Big houses, flashy cars, children in prep schools. Mum bragged about them to anyone who’d listen, while calling me the family failure.
The sisters loathed me. They were stuck babysitting me as kids but never missed a chance to sneer. “You’ll never be half as good as us,” they’d laugh. When guests came over, Mum would dig out photo albums of the older kids, gushing about their achievements, then shrug when asked about me. “Katherine? Oh, she scraped by, nothing special.” I tried so hard, but no one cared. After school, I trained as a seamstress, got my diploma, and worked in a little tailor’s shop. I loved sewing—there was joy in it, and I made decent money. My parents just scoffed. “A seamstress? That’s not a proper job.” I moved out, lived in a bedsit, then rented a flat just to escape their disapproval.
Years later, I met Michael. He was my lifeline. We married, had a daughter, little Annabelle. For the first time, I was happy. Then fate sucker-punched me—Michael and Annabelle died in a car crash. My heart shattered. I was left in a void where hope didn’t exist. Not a single call, not one word of comfort from my family—as if my grief meant nothing. The only ones who cared were my coworkers 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 courting me. I’m not ready—not yet—the old wounds run too deep. And just as I tentatively begin to open up again, my family suddenly remembers I exist. Dad passed years ago, and now Mum’s bedridden. She needs care, but her precious, successful children are too busy. So they rang me, as if I’m their last resort. “You’ve got nothing better to do—join the dots,” my brothers sneered. The sisters chimed in: “You owe it to her. It’s your duty.”
I was stunned. These people spent my entire life belittling me, calling me worthless, mocking my dreams. They vanished when I needed them most, and now they demand I drop everything to care for the woman who never loved me? The same woman who wished I’d never been born, who praised everyone but me? I said no. “Sort it out yourselves,” I told them, my voice steel. Then came the threats—brothers yelling about cutting me out of the will, sisters vowing to ruin my reputation. But I don’t care. Their words don’t hurt anymore—I’ve endured enough.
My heart aches, but not from their cruelty. It aches because I was never family to them. To them, I was just a burden—now a free nurse. I won’t go back to the world that crushed me. Let Mum be looked after by the children she actually loved—her “perfect” ones. I’ll live for myself now. Oliver says it’s time for a fresh start, and maybe I’ll take that chance. But one thing’s certain: I won’t let them break me again. They lost me for good, and that’s their doing—not mine.
