My sister was always cherished, while I was just a mistake in my parents’ youth…
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like an outsider in my own family. There were no spontaneous hugs, no one asking about my day, no praise, no sense of protection. My mother would bluntly tell me, “You weren’t planned. I only married because I got pregnant with you. Your father and I never intended to live together, but we had no choice.” I’ve heard those words since childhood, and they left a deep, lasting wound.
I was just three when Alice was born. From the very start, my sister received everything: attention, affection, love. She wore the nicest dresses, played with the most colorful toys, and got the sweetest treats. She could ask for money for ice cream anytime – and she’d get it. She could be moody, rude, or break things – and my parents would find it charming. And me? I was expected to fall in line. I was given nothing. One wrong step and it was, “Shameful! Look at Alice, how clever she is, and you…”
I grew up in the shadow. In the shadow of a blue-eyed angel adored by the whole house. From a young age, I had to be the adult. I protected myself at school, learned my lessons alone, managed my hurt by myself. No one cared about what was happening inside me or how I was coping. I became invisible.
When I turned twenty, I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed my things and left. Just moved to a different city. No drama, no scenes. My parents didn’t even ask where I was going. They didn’t call the next day, nor the next week. Friends, classmates, colleagues — they called. But not them. Sometimes, I would call. In return, there was indifference, forced politeness. As if I was a stranger.
Then he came into my life — a man who loved me for my true self, not a facade. He proposed to me. We had a modest wedding, and I gave birth to two wonderful children. He was there in every challenge, supported me, loved me, cared for me. For the first time, I felt needed. Truly.
Alice, meanwhile, stayed with our parents. Polished, beautiful, fastidious. No suitor was ever good enough for her. Suitors came and went. She was always dissatisfied, always critical.
One day, I received a call about my father’s illness. As a daughter, I didn’t turn my back. I supported them — sent money each month, even when my own situation wasn’t great. My husband never reproached me for this. He understood how important it was for me to help. My parents weren’t perfect, but I am human. I have a conscience.
Then Alice came to me. She sat down, glanced around, and suddenly declared, “You’re not sending enough money. You’re living in luxury. We gave you everything as a child, and now you can’t even return the favour.”
I listened in disbelief. What did you give me, tell me? Where is this idyllic childhood you speak of? The money, the care? I scrubbed ovens in strangers’ apartments to buy myself boots! I looked after your children for a crust of bread while you and mother vacationed by the sea!
She tried to turn me into the enemy, to win over my husband with sympathy, to manipulate through pity. I saw her eyes assessing every corner of our home, looking for a reason to take more. Not for our father. For herself.
I didn’t create a scene. I simply transferred more money than usual. But I wrote one thing: “I hope you no longer think of me. No complaints, no accusations. Just forget. I never asked for love. But at least don’t interfere with my family.”
I don’t know if forgiveness is possible. Perhaps if there was something to forgive. But over the years, not a single admission, not a single “sorry,” not a single “you matter to us.” Only demands. Only expectations. I’m tired of paying for my birth. For coming into this world unplanned. Yet I am a living person. A woman. A mother. A sister.
Tell me… would you forgive?