**The Unloved Daughter**
I was nearly home when my phone rang. Digging it out of my bag, I answered my brother.
“Hi, Toby.” I still called him by his childhood nickname without a shred of guilt, even though he was now taller and far more grown-up than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminded me.
And thank God he did—because I had.
“No, of course not,” I lied smoothly. “Got her a present yet?”
“That’s why I rang. Fancy meeting up to discuss?”
“Sure. Come over to mine? Or we could grab lunch tomorrow at our usual café?”
“Sorted. I’ll see you there at noon. Call if anything changes, yeah? See you then.” And with that, Anthony hung up.
I adore my little brother. He’s the closest person to me—not Mum, him. It terrifies me now to remember that once, I wanted him dead. The guilt never leaves me, especially when I see him. The shame, too. I’d never have forgiven myself. But back then…
***
My parents met at university, inseparable from the start. Mum lived with her parents, Dad in halls—no privacy. The only way to be together was to marry. So they announced it. The sighs, the pleas to wait, the tears—none of it worked. Young and stubborn, they fought for their love, and in the end, Mum’s parents gave in.
Mum’s always been the type to barrel ahead once her mind’s made up. She convinced them to skip a lavish wedding and use the money to rent a flat instead. Two rooms with her parents? No chance. So they did.
Newly married, they spent every free moment in bed—turning up to lectures exhausted, radiating love like all fools in it. They thought nothing could shake them. How naive.
Then Mum got pregnant. They took it in stride—just one year left of studies. They’d manage.
But Mum became impossible. Morning sickness, exhaustion, smells setting her off—she couldn’t cook. Dad started staying late at the pub with mates. The rows began. Still, they made up quickly, especially once the sickness passed.
Then I arrived. Sleepless nights, endless fatigue—and exams still looming. Nan and Grandad took turns watching me so Mum could finish her degree. She often sneaked out of lectures, her breasts aching with milk.
Her exhaustion seeped into me. I cried constantly, only sleeping in someone’s arms. My parents leaped at any chance to hand me off and flee to campus for a break—or a nap in lectures.
Love or not, they were young and impatient. The flaws surfaced fast—who did more, who slacked. The rows flared over nothing. Dad vanished to the pub again, coming home late to fresh arguments.
Then—graduation. Jobs. Nursery for me, work for Mum. But I kept falling ill. Mum burned through sick days. Nan and Grandad were still working, couldn’t help. And then… Dad started staying late again.
One night, he came home past midnight. Mum screeched at him.
“Enough!” he shouted. “I can’t do this anymore. Marrying was a mistake. I love someone else.” Just like that, he packed and left.
I don’t remember it—I was too young. The fragments came later: Mum’s bitter words, Nan’s reluctant explanations, my own piecing together as I grew.
Few young marriages survive the grind. After Dad left, Mum changed. The tears, the rage—all of it landed on me.
Spilled tea? Dropped biscuit? “Clumsy. Just like your father.” I decided he left because of me—because I was bad. That belief stuck.
“Other children are tidy. You? A mess. Useless, like him.”
My mere existence seemed to irritate her. Nan said I was his double—cruel luck.
My life became about not upsetting her. Less than an A was tragedy. I scraped for her approval, but nothing worked.
“My handwriting’s awful.”
“Chicken scratch. Like your father’s.” So I practiced for hours instead of playing. I perfected it—not that she noticed.
Then she remarried. A relief—she ignored me now. Uncle John visited my room, played with me, helped with homework—until Mum called him away.
Once, he asked, “Brother or sister?” I wanted neither—just to be loved. “A brother,” I said. He smiled, ruffled my hair. Mum never did that. The simple kindness burned.
Those few days Mum was in hospital? Bliss. Just Uncle John and me—no shouting. I started calling him Dad. Then she came home with a bundle, and everything changed.
The baby was loud, helpless, *hated*. Now Dad ignored me too. Time passed. Toby toddled after me on chubby legs. If he fell? My fault.
All the love went to him. Mum bragged about his tiny triumphs, forgetting me. Only Dad asked about school. That’s when the thought took root: *If Toby were gone, he’d love only me.* Not even a thought—just a dark, formless whisper.
At nine, with Toby nearly three, we went to Brighton. The sea stretched forever, the sun baked the sand—perfect. We stayed far from the crowds.
That day, Mum napped under a wide sunhat. Dad read beside her. Sweltering.
“Can we swim?” I asked.
Toby clamored to join. Dad warned me to watch him—no going deep.
I hadn’t planned it. We waded in. Toby gripped my hand, bravely following as the water rose to his chest. I glanced back. Mum dozed. Dad read. I let go.
Toby stopped, looked up.
“Dolphins!” I pointed.
He stepped—and vanished into a dip. A wave swallowed him. I didn’t move. Just watched him flail. His head broke the surface once—confusion, not fear, in his eyes—then under again.
Suddenly, terror. I turned, screamed, sprinted for shore. Dad was already running. He raced past me, hauled Toby out. Just waterlogged. But his look—*disgust*. I wished the sand would swallow me.
He never told Mum. Toby babbled about dolphins. But Dad never left us alone again. He didn’t trust me.
That’s how I nearly killed my brother. The guilt never left. He never understood—or forgot.
I aced school, fled to Oxford. Classmates saw a quiet achiever. Just a broken, unloved girl avoiding boys.
At my graduation, Toby finished school. He begged to follow me. *Why?* I never understood his love.
We shared a flat. Parents helped. The hate melted—I loved him fiercely. Handsome, kind—my brother.
He got a girlfriend. Nan left her a flat. When parents visited, he’d crash with me again. Covering for him became second nature.
He’s my only family now.
***
“Hi!” I called, spotting Toby by the café window.
He kissed my cheek—could’ve passed for a couple. “Ordered your usual.”
“Thanks. Not hungry though.”
Coffee arrived. Toby demolished his pastry like a starved pup. I slid mine over.
“So—Mum’s birthday?” I asked.
“Kat and I have an idea. She’ll love it. But I can’t swing it alone—you in?”
“Absolutely.”
Mum always thanked me for gifts with distant eyes, then fawned over Toby’s silly trinkets. No point competing. I’d transfer him the cash.
“It’ll be from both of us,” he said.
I nodded. We planned the trip home. Then Toby leaned in.
“That bloke’s eyeing you,” he whispered. “Gotta dash. They’re bringing your ice cream.” He vanished.
Cheeky git. Knows my weakness. They brought chocolate scoops—and the man from my office slid into his seat. That’s how I met my husband.
I stopped fearing Mum, stopped begging for her love. I grew up.
They say daughters repeat their mothers. Not true. Maybe I’ve got her in me—but my children? They’ll *know* they’re loved. Whatever it takes.
