**The Unloved Daughter**
I was nearly home when my phone rang in my bag. I pulled it out and answered my brother.
“Hello, Toby,” I said, unashamedly using his childhood nickname, though he was grown now, taller than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a big one,” he reminded me. And just as well—I had forgotten.
“No, of course not,” I lied. “Have you got her a present yet?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Let’s meet up to discuss it.”
“Alright. Fancy coming over? Or we could meet at lunch tomorrow, at our usual café?” I suggested.
“Done. I’ll see you there at twelve. Ring me if anything changes, yeah? Till then.” With that, Anthony hung up.
I adore him, my little brother. He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got. Not Mum—just him. It fills me with shame now to remember that I once wanted him dead. The guilt still haunts me, especially when I see him. I’d never forgive myself if I’d gone through with it. But back then…
***
My future parents met at university, inseparable from the moment they fell in love. But they had nowhere to be alone—Mum lived with her parents, and Dad was stuck in student digs. The only way forward was marriage, which they announced to Mum’s parents despite sighs, tears, and pleas to wait. The young couple wouldn’t be swayed, burning with the certainty only first love brings. In the end, her parents relented.
Mum had always been stubborn—once she dug her heels in, nothing would move her. She persuaded them to host a modest wedding and use the leftover money to rent a flat for her and Dad. Two rooms with her parents wouldn’t do. So, it was settled.
At first, love carried them through endless stolen hours together. They arrived at lectures bleary-eyed, wrapped in each other’s happiness, convinced their love would last forever. They never imagined hardship could touch them. How naïve they were.
Then came the inevitable—Mum fell pregnant. It shocked them both, but they faced it with determination. Just a year and a half left of their degrees. They’d pull through.
But pregnancy made Mum irritable. Morning sickness left her exhausted; the smell of food made her retch. Dad, overwhelmed, spent evenings in the student bar instead. Arguments flared, though they always resolved quickly—especially once the sickness passed, and Mum returned to cooking.
My arrival brought sleepless nights and exhaustion, all while they juggled their studies. Nan and Grandad took turns watching me so Mum could finish her degree, though she often slipped away early when her milk came in.
Their fatigue seeped into me. I wailed constantly, only sleeping in someone’s arms. My parents handed me off eagerly—to anyone—just for a moment’s rest. Love alone couldn’t make up for their inexperience or exhaustion. Every little flaw became a reason to snipe at each other. Dad vanished into the bar more often, returning late to fresh rows.
Finally, they graduated. Dad found work; I grew older and went to nursery. Mum took a job too—until I started falling ill, forcing her to take leave. Nan and Grandad were still working themselves, unable to help. New troubles piled up. Dad stayed out later…
One night, he came home to another shouting match.
“That’s it!” he yelled. “I can’t live like this. We rushed into marriage. I’m in love with someone else.”
Without hesitation, he packed a bag and left.
I was too young to remember this. Mum told me some; Nan filled in gaps. The rest I pieced together later.
Few young marriages survive such strain. After Dad left, Mum changed. She wept often, lashing her pain out on me.
If I spilled tea or dropped biscuits, she called me clumsy—just like my father. I grew up believing he’d left because I was bad.
“Other children behave—you’re a mess,” she’d scold. “You’ve got his hands.”
Even my face seemed to irritate her. Nan said I was my father’s image—cruel luck, that.
My sole purpose became avoiding her anger. Anything less than top marks crushed me. I worked myself ragged to please her—but nothing ever did.
My handwriting was poor.
“Chicken scratch,” Mum sneered. “Just like your father’s.”
So I sat copying letters for hours instead of playing. I perfected my script—but she never noticed.
Then she remarried. Life lightened—she ignored me now. Uncle Will often visited my room, helping with homework or playing games until she called him away.
One day, he asked if I wanted a brother or sister. I wanted neither—just to be loved. But I said a brother. He smiled and ruffled my hair, something Mum never did. That small kindness stayed with me.
The days Mum spent in hospital having Toby were my happiest. Just Uncle Will and me—no shouting, no tears. I called him Dad.
Then she returned with a tiny bundle, and everything changed again.
Toby was helpless, loud. I hated him. Now he stole Dad’s attention too. When he grew older, wobbling after me on chubby legs, I felt no joy. If he fell, Mum blamed me.
All her love went to Toby. She boasted of his little victories, forgetting me entirely. Only Dad asked about my schoolwork.
That’s when the thought took root—if Toby were gone, Dad might love only me. Not even a thought, just a dark whisper.
When I was nine and Toby barely three, we holidayed at the seaside. The endless water, golden sand, cloudless sky—bliss. We settled far from crowds.
One scorching afternoon, Mum dozed under her wide sunhat. Dad read beside her.
“Can I go swim?” I asked.
Toby begged to follow, as always. Dad warned me to watch him and stay shallow.
I hadn’t planned anything. We waded in. Toby gripped my hand bravely as the water rose to his chest. I glanced back—Mum hadn’t moved; Dad still read.
Then I let go.
He blinked, confused.
“Look, dolphins,” I said, pointing beyond him.
He stepped forward—into a dip. A wave swallowed him whole.
I didn’t move. Just watched him thrash, choke. His face surfaced once—no fear, just confusion—before vanishing again.
Then terror seized me. I screamed, bolting for shore. Dad was already running past me, plunging in to drag Toby out.
He survived—just swallowed seawater. But Dad’s look crushed me. Disappointment. Worse than anger.
I prayed he wouldn’t tell Mum. He never did. Toby babbled about dolphins.
After that, Dad never left us alone together. He stopped trusting me.
So nearly, I drowned my brother. The guilt never left me. He remembered nothing—or forgave too late.
I graduated top of my class. Any university would’ve taken me. I chose Edinburgh—anything to escape.
My classmates thought me studious, shy. Really, I was just unloved, withdrawn. I avoided boys entirely.
By my graduation, Toby was finishing school—desperate to join me in Edinburgh. I never understood why he adored me so.
He persuaded our parents. I rented us a flat. Their money helped. Slowly, my hatred faded—I loved him fiercely.
In time, he met a girl. Nan left her a flat. I covered for him when our parents visited, letting him stay with me those nights.
He became my only family.
***
“Hello!” I called, spotting Toby by the café window.
He kissed my cheek—to strangers, we might’ve been lovers. “I ordered coffee and scones, like always.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
When they arrived, he devoured his like a starving wolf. I slid my plate to him.
“About Mum’s birthday?” I prompted.
“Kate and I have an idea. She’ll love it. But I’ll need your help.”
“Of course.”
Mum always thanked me for gifts before setting them aside. Toby’s presents—often silly—she’d fawn over. I never minded. Why start now?
“It’ll be from both of us,” he said.
I nodded, smiling. We planned our trip home—until Toby leaned in.
“That bloke hasn’t stopped staring at you,” he whispered, winking. “I’m off. They’re bringing your ice cream.”
Cheeky. He knew my weakness.
As the chocolate scoops arrived, the man approached—someone from my office. That’s how I met my husband.
I stopped fearing Mum, stopped craving her approval. I grew up.
They say daughters relive their mothers’ lives. Not true. Maybe I carry pieces of her—but my children will never doubt my love. I’ll make sure of it.
