Throughout My Childhood, My Brother Treated Me Like a Servant, and the Words My Mum and Grandma Said Still Haunt Me

When I was a child, my little brother was always the apple of our mothers and grandmothers eye. They doted on him endlessly, basking him in their attention while I seemed to fade into the wallpaper. He received the finest things: the choicest toys, the sweetest puddings, piping hot pies, bowls brimming with wild berrieswhatever he wished for was lovingly handed to him. Meanwhile, I was often overlooked, left to pick up his scattered things, make up his bed, and whip up his breakfast. I felt bitter about being cast in the role of his personal housemaid, forever scurrying after him, hopping to satisfy his every whim.

This strange pattern gnawed at me, especially since Mum often spoke of being mistreated by Dad before their split, a history that loomed over us. And yet, I saw her raising my brother to be much the same kind of man. Whenever I tried, in my dreamy midnight logic, to resist or protest, my fussing was swiftly hushed, and the pecking order held firm. I recall, in vivid, surreal flashes, the last year at schoola haze of exam stress weaving in and out of the dayswhile Mum and Nan would ring me up every few minutes, urging me to drop my revision and feed my brother instead. Your brothers what really matters, theyd remind me, as if his needs trumped all else and my books were just idle clutter. Despite the endless toil, I managed to pass my exams by some curious determination, though the work seemed to grow physically heavy, as if I was dragging it behind me in a fog.

When university entrance loomed, my grandmother herself began questioning why a girl should bother with education. She nudged me to focus on marrying, raising children, running a homethe old refrain echoing in my ears like a lullaby shared by generations. But I pressed on, passing through university anyway, feeling the ground shift beneath my dreamlike feet. By then, the burden had twisted and grown impossiblea knotted weightand I resolved to finally leave home. I was sick of being responsible for my brother, every waking moment stitched into his story.

Mum and Nan were furious at my departure; Nan had to give up her job to care for my brother, which cast a long, shadowy drama over the house for months. Stepping out into the foggy unknown was hard, as if I was wading through a field of tall grass that pulled at my ankles, but I knew it was the only thing that could save me from myself. I deserved to be more than just background detail, more than a servant hovering among the furniture. I was determined to carve out a new lifea life where my worth was measured and cherished, not swept under a family rug.