**The Unloved Daughter**
I was nearly home when my phone rang from inside my bag. Fishing it out, I answered my brother’s call.
“Hey, Toby,” I said, unapologetically using his childhood nickname, even though he was grown now, taller than me.
“You haven’t forgotten Mum’s birthday next week, have you? It’s a milestone, by the way,” he reminded me—just as well, because I *had* forgotten.
“No, of course not,” I lied smoothly. “Have you got her something already?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Fancy meeting up to talk about it?”
“Sure. My place? Or maybe lunch tomorrow at our usual café?” I suggested.
“Sorted. I’ll meet you there at noon. We’ll ring if plans change, yeah? See you then.” And just like that, Anton hung up.
I adore him, my little brother. He’s the closest person in my life—not Mum, but him. It terrifies me now to remember that once, I wanted him dead. The guilt still clings to me, especially when I see him. And the shame. I could never forgive myself for it. But back then…
***
My parents met at uni, inseparable from the start, clinging to each other like lifelines. Mum still lived at home; Dad was in student halls. Their only solution? Marriage. When they broke the news to Mum’s parents, there were sighs, tears, pleas to wait—none of it worked. They were stubborn, blazing with youthful conviction about love. In the end, her parents gave in.
Mum’s the sort who, once she’s set her mind to something, bulldozes through. She convinced them to skip a lavish wedding, using the money to rent a flat instead—no way were they squeezing into her parents’ two-bedroom house.
For a while, it was all passion. They’d turn up to lectures sleep-deprived, glowing, convinced love would conquer everything. How naive.
Then, inevitably, Mum fell pregnant. A shock, but they weathered it. Only a year and a half left of their degrees—they’d manage. But Mum grew irritable, exhausted by morning sickness, repelled by cooking smells. Dad started staying out late with mates, tensions flaring, though they always made up—especially once the nausea passed.
My arrival brought sleepless nights, endless fatigue. Uni didn’t stop. Grandma and Grandpa took turns babysitting so Mum could finish her degree. She’d sneak off lectures when her milk came in, sore and desperate.
Their exhaustion seeped into me. I wailed constantly, only sleeping in someone’s arms. They were happy to hand me off, fleeing for respite—even napping in lectures if they could.
Love wasn’t enough. Inexperience and impativeness crept in. Petty grievances, score-keeping—who’d done what, who hadn’t. Sleep deprivation fuelled rows over nothing. Dad vanished into the halls again, coming home late to fresh arguments.
Then—graduation. Diplomas in hand, Dad started working. Money improved, sleepless nights faded. I grew older, started nursery, Mum went back to work. But then I kept getting ill. She took endless sick days; Grandma and Grandpa were too young to retire, too busy to help. Life kept testing them. Dad stayed late at the office more often…
One night, he came home to another row.
“Enough!” he shouted. “I can’t live like this. Marrying you was a mistake. We rushed into it. I’m in love with someone else.” No warning, no pause. He packed a bag and left.
I don’t remember any of this—I was too young. Mum told me some; Grandma filled in gaps; I pieced the rest together myself.
Not every young marriage survives life’s grind. After Dad left, Mum wasn’t the same. She cried often, taking her pain out on me.
If I spilled tea or dropped biscuits, she’d snap that I was clumsy, just like my father. I grew up believing *I* drove him away—that I was the problem.
“Other children are tidy, but you? Filthy. Just like your dad.”
I felt my *existence* irritated her. Grandma often said I looked just like Dad—cruel luck, that.
Pleasing Mum became my life’s mission. Anything less than top marks devastated me. I worked myself raw to impress her. But nothing was ever enough.
My handwriting was messy.
“What’s this scribble? Chicken scratch, just like your father’s.”
So I practised for hours, copying letters perfectly while other kids played. I mastered it—but Mum never noticed.
Then she remarried. Things improved, because she barely acknowledged me anymore. Uncle Will often slipped into my room, helping with homework or playing games—until Mum called him away.
Once, he asked if I wanted a little brother or sister. I didn’t. I just wanted to be loved. “A brother, I suppose,” I said. He smiled, ruffled my hair—a gesture Mum never made. My heart swelled at the rare affection.
Those few days when Mum was in hospital having the baby were the happiest I’d known. Just me and Uncle Will—no shouting, no tension. I started calling him *Dad*. Then Mum returned with a tiny bundle, and everything changed again.
My brother was helpless, screaming, *hated*. Now *Dad* ignored me too. Time passed; Toby grew, wobbling after me on chubby legs. If he fell, Mum blamed me.
All her love went to him. She’d gush over his tiny achievements, forgetting me entirely. Only Dad asked about my schoolwork.
That’s when the thought took root: if Toby vanished, Dad would love only me. Not even a thought—just a dark, shapeless urge.
When I was nine and Toby nearly three, we went to the seaside. Bliss—endless warm waves, golden sand, cloudless skies. We strayed far from the crowds.
One afternoon, Mum dozed under a wide-brimmed hat. Dad read beside her. Sweltering heat.
“Can I go swimming?” I asked.
Toby clamoured to join. He copied everything I did. Dad said yes but warned me to watch him and stay shallow.
I hadn’t planned anything. We waded in, Toby clutching my hand, bravely following as the water rose to his chest. I glanced back—Mum hadn’t moved; Dad was still reading.
Then I let go of his hand.
He stopped, blinking up at me.
“Look—dolphins,” I said, pointing seaward.
He stepped forward—into a dip. A wave swallowed him whole.
I didn’t grab him. I *could* have. I just watched him flail, gasping. His head broke the surface once—his eyes held no fear, just confusion—before he vanished again.
Then terror seized me. I turned and sprinted for shore, screaming.
Dad was already running. He’d seen—or guessed. He raced past me, plunging in, hauling Toby out. He’d only swallowed water. But the way Dad looked at me then—I wished the earth would swallow *me*. His eyes held nothing but disappointment.
I feared he’d tell Mum. He never did. Toby just babbled about dolphins. From then on, Dad never left us alone together. He didn’t trust me.
That’s how I almost killed my brother. The guilt never left me. He never understood—or if he did, he forgot.
I graduated top of my class, could’ve gone to any university. I chose Edinburgh—far enough away.
My classmates thought me bookish, shy. Really, I was just an unloved child, quiet and closed-off. I avoided boys.
When I finished uni, Toby was taking his A-levels. He begged to join me in Edinburgh—I never understood why he adored me so.
He persuaded our parents. We shared a flat; they helped with rent. My hatred for him evaporated—I loved him fiercely now. He’s handsome, my brother.
Eventually, he got a girlfriend. Grandma left her a flat; they moved in together. I covered for him—whenever our parents visited, I’d call, and he’d come stay with me for a few days.
He became my only family.
***
“Hey!” I called, spotting Toby by the café window.
“Hey.” He stood, kissing my cheek—we might’ve looked like a couple. “Got your usual coffee and scones.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
The coffee arrived; Toby tore into the scones like a starved wolf. I pushed mine toward him.
“So—Mum’s birthday?” I prompted.
“Kate and I had an idea. She’ll love it. But I can’t manage alone—fancy chipping in?”
“Of course,” I said instantly.
Mum always thanked me for gifts but set them aside, indifferent. Toby’s—even the silly ones—she fawned over. I stopped minding long ago. Why bother competing now? I promised to transfer my share.
“It’ll be from both of us,” he said.
I nodded, smiling. WeI no longer feared my mother’s disapproval—I had learned to love myself, and that was enough.
