I Discovered My Mother’s Diary: After Reading It, I Finally Understood Why She Treated Me Differently from My Siblings

14October2025

I have finally found Mums old diary. Reading it has finally given me the answer as to why she always seemed to treat me differently from the rest of the brood.

All my life I felt like something was off, as if I were a mismatched piece in the family puzzle. My brother, Harry, and my younger sister, Eleanor, always seemed to fit perfectly into Mums heart. She showered them with tender words, endless patience and caring.

With me the tone was cold distance, a chill that has lingered since I was a child. I never understood why, so over the years I invented all sorts of explanations.

Did I fail to meet her expectations? Did I do something wrong? Those questions clung to me for decades, until the day I uncovered a secret that would forever reshape my view of our family.

Mum passed away a few months ago. Only now have I gathered the courage to sort through her things. Harry and Eleanor dealt with the paperwork and the formalities. I took on the hardest part sifting through the personal trinkets nobody else wanted to touch.

The wardrobe was crammed with old dresses still scented with the perfume Mum used to wear. I ran my fingers over the fabrics, remembering the cold evenings of my childhood when I longed for her closeness, only to receive a frosty glance and a whispered, Im busy now.

At the very bottom of a drawer I discovered something I never expected a dusty, leatherbound notebook tied with a faded ribbon. I opened it slowly, heart pounding. The first page bore only Mums name, Margaret, and the year 1978, the year I was born.

The opening entries were full of youthful hopes and mundane notes. I read them with a mix of sadness and curiosity. It wasnt until I reached the entries from that autumn that the ground seemed to slip from under me.

Today I told John Im pregnant. He was silent for a long while, then finally muttered, I cant, Margaret. You know I have a family. I never promised you anything more. He left me alone on the park bench. I thought I would die of grief. How will I tell my husband? How will I tell the children?

I kept turning the pages, each entry tearing at me more than the last. The truth I had unconsciously feared emerged: the man I had always known as my father was not my biological dad. The man Mum loved without reciprocity had abandoned her, leaving her to raise a child alone. Their marriage survived, but it was already scarred by my very existence.

I gave birth to a girl. When I look at her I see his face. I dont know if Ill ever be able to love her as I did the other children. She is a living reminder of my weakness, my shame. Every glance at her hurts.

I read that line over and over, tears spilling freely. For the first time I understood why Mum always behaved differently toward me. I was an unconscious reminder of her greatest mistake, of a love that never came to fruition. She could not separate her pain from the child she had created.

I sat in her bedroom for hours, diary on my lap, weeping for both of our fates. Anger, resentment, sorrow, and above all a profound sense of loss washed over me years of being met with indifference instead of affection. Yet, for the first time, I felt compassion for her. How much must she have suffered, keeping that secret for so long?

In the days that followed I began to look at my own life through a new lens. I had always feared rejection, doubted I deserved love now I knew why. My mother had carried a grief that she unintentionally passed onto me. The discovery forced me to reconsider who I truly am a daughter who was never wanted, or a woman who, despite everything, can still love?

I told Harry and Eleanor about the diary. They were stunned. Harry pulled me into a hug, Eleanor wept for a long while. They admitted they had always sensed that I was treated differently, but couldnt name it. Their love for me did not waver; if anything it grew stronger.

Today, though the wounds are still fresh, the question why? no longer haunts me. I finally see that Mum could never move beyond her own trauma. I have forgiven her, because I understand how hard it is to bear a secret that keeps bleeding. I have resolved not to let the past dictate the rest of my life. I have started therapy, rebuilding my sense of worth, learning to love myself in a way I never knew before.

Even if I was born from another mans mistake, my life is just as valuable as anyone elses. I have the right to be happy, to accept myself, and to love, even if Mum never knew how to love me.

Perhaps now, armed with the truth, I can finally live truly without fear, without shame, in harmony with who I am.