I was never wanted. My father married my mother not out of love, but because he had no choice—she was pregnant with me. She told me this more than once, with that same cold, bitter smirk. “If it weren’t for you, my life would have been different,” she would say. Before me, she had freedom, laughter, an easy life. Then I came along, and she was shackled to a responsibility she never asked for.
But when my sister was born, everything was different. She was the child they had truly wanted. I was three years old at the time, but even then, I understood—there was only room for one beloved child in this family. Her golden hair, her bright blue eyes, her whims—all of it was adored. Whatever she wanted, she got. A new dress? Of course. Toys, sweets, money? Always. And me? I lived under strict rules because, as they said, “discipline is good for you.”
The years passed, but nothing changed. In school, I learned to fend for myself. No one cared how I was doing or what I needed. But my sister? She grew up beautiful, spoiled, and convinced that the world owed her everything.
When I turned twenty, I realized there was nothing for me in that house. I packed my things and left. Moved to New York. Started a new life. They didn’t even try to stop me. I was the one who called first, but every conversation was cold, distant, meaningless.
But God didn’t abandon me. I met a woman who truly loved me—not for money, not for convenience, but for who I was. We got married, had children, and for the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be loved, respected, and valued.
And my sister? She never married. No man was ever “good enough” for her. She was so used to being worshipped that she expected someone to lay the world at her feet. But no one ever did.
Then my father got sick, and suddenly, she remembered I existed. Or rather, my wallet did. She stormed into my home, furious, full of accusations. “You’re not sending enough money! How can you be so heartless? This is our family! Our past!”
Our past? What past?!
When I was a child, I wasn’t even given pocket change for ice cream. If I wanted something, I had to work for it—cleaning floors, chopping wood, doing odd jobs for neighbors. Meanwhile, she had everything handed to her without lifting a finger. And now she comes to me, demanding money?
I had already been helping. Every month, I sent money. But apparently, it was never enough.
I looked her in the eye and said, “You were the family’s pride and joy your whole life. Now it’s your turn to take care of our parents. I’ve done more than enough.”
And yet… in the end, I sent more money. More than before. Just to shut them up. Just so they would leave me alone.
But tell me… Would you forgive them?
