**Diary Entry**
I’ve known for years now—in families with more than one child, there’s almost always a *favourite* and a *spare*. The favourite is endlessly adored, excused, coddled, and supported. The other? Blamed for every family misfortune. That’s exactly how it was in mine.
Mum worshipped my younger brother, Oliver. And me? I was the *accident*. Once, in the heat of an argument, she spat out, *”If it weren’t for you, I’d never have divorced your father.”* Those words burrowed so deep, even now, I can’t shake them. Back then, I couldn’t fathom how a parent could say such a thing. *I* hadn’t asked to be born. But Mum clearly thought otherwise.
After the divorce, she palmed me off to my dad’s parents—my grandparents. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a strange house, without her. Nan and Grandad 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 jail, polished his ruined reputation.
Later, she sold her big four-bed in Chelsea just to buy him a flat. I only found out through mutual friends. She never once considered me. Oliver got all of it—her love, her money, her nerves. I might as well not have existed.
I’ve lived in Manchester for years now. Married, raised a daughter. Now we’ve even got a grandson—my girl’s settled in the flat my grandparents left her. Life’s steady, warm. No debts, no grudges. Mum and I rarely spoke. Why would we? We’re strangers.
Then everything shifted.
Mum fractured her hip. The hospital said she needed surgery—private, of course. And guess who paid? *Me.* Yes, me. Out of my own pocket. Because, despite everything, she’s still my mother. I couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering.
But after the op, it turned out she’d need long-term care—someone to cook, clean, drive her to appointments.
That’s when Oliver suddenly *passed the buck* to me. Calls at first, then pressure: *”You have to. You’re her daughter.”*
I refused.
And then—outrage. Both of them, Mum and Oliver, came at me. The accusations, the dredged-up slights I’d *supposedly* caused. Mum wheezed, *”I gave you life, raised you!”* And I just thought—*raised me how?* Dumped me with strangers and forgot I existed? Love, care, warmth—all of it went one way. To Oliver.
So why remember me now, when she’s helpless? Where was I in her life before?
I didn’t hold back. *”You made your choice, Mum. You bet everything on one child and cast the other aside. 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 owe you nothing.”*
They didn’t like that. Called me heartless, cruel, ungrateful. But something inside me had already hardened.
No guilt. Just bitterness. Bitterness at how unfair our story turned out.
Now Mum’s in a rehab centre. Oliver visits when it suits him. And me? I live my life. Sometimes I dream of Nan—the one who took me in, wiped my tears read me *The Tales of Beatrix Potter*. *She* was my real mother.
Let them say I’m holding a grudge. Fine. I’m no saint. But I won’t give myself away again to people who threw me out first.
