**Diary Entry**
I realised long ago that in families with more than one child, someone is nearly always the favourite while someone else gets pushed aside. The one who is loved beyond measure is forgiven everything, coddled, supported. The other—unwanted—is blamed for every family misfortune. That’s exactly how it was in my home.
Mum adored my younger brother, Oliver. And me? I was the “mistake child.” Once, in the heat of an argument, she snapped, “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have divorced your father.” Those words carved into me so deeply that even now, years later, I can’t forget them. Back then, I didn’t understand how anyone could say that to their child. I didn’t ask to be born. I wasn’t the reason my parents split. But Mum? She clearly thought otherwise.
After the divorce, she sent me to live with my father’s parents—my grandparents. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a strange house without her. My grandparents were kind, at least. They became my real family. Meanwhile, Mum poured everything into Oliver—fussing over him, bailing him out of trouble, even when he was grown and tangled in shady dealings. She paid his debts, kept him out of prison, cleaned up his messes.
Later, she sold her big, four-bedroom flat in London just to buy him a place of his own. I found out from friends—after the fact. She never spared a thought for me. She gave Oliver everything—love, money, her sanity. And me? She forgot I existed.
I moved away years ago. Married, raised a daughter. Now we have a grandson—our little boy lives in the flat my grandparents left us. Life is quiet, peaceful. No debts, no grudges. Mum and I barely spoke, and I was fine with that. Why force a relationship when we’re strangers?
Then everything changed.
Mum broke her hip. The hospital said she needed surgery—private, of course. And guess who paid? Me. *Me.* Out of my own pocket. Because, no matter what, she’s still my mother. I couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering.
But after the surgery, they said she needed long-term care—someone to cook, clean, help her rehab, take her to appointments.
And suddenly, Oliver kicked the responsibility to me. Calls, guilt-trips, demands: “You *owe* her. You’re her daughter!”
I refused.
The backlash? Both of them—Mum and Oliver—came at me. Accusations. Old wounds dragged up, things *I* supposedly did to *them*. Mum cried, “I gave birth to you, raised you!” And I just thought—*raised me how?* You dumped me with strangers and forgot I existed. Love, care, warmth—Oliver got all of it.
So why remember me now, when she’s the one in need? Where was she all those years?
I didn’t hold back:
“Mum, you made your choice. You bet everything on one child and threw the other away. Now it’s harvest time. Here’s your golden boy—strong, grown. Let *him* take care of you. I’m not that little girl you can guilt-trip anymore. I don’t owe anyone anything.”
They didn’t like that. Called me heartless, cruel, ungrateful. But something inside me had gone cold.
I didn’t feel guilty. Just bitter. Bitter at how unfair it all was.
Now Mum’s in rehab. Oliver visits when he can. And me? I live my life. Sometimes I dream of my grandmother—the one who took me in, wiped my tears, read me stories. *She* was my real mother.
Let them say I’m holding a grudge. It’s true. I’m no saint. But I won’t sacrifice myself for people who threw me away.
