My parents always said they loved us the same.
But I grew up knowing that wasn’t true.
I’m a twin.
My brother was born two minutes before me, and somehow those two minutes seemed to decide everything.
He was celebrated for everything.
I was congratulated “when they remembered,” as my grandmother used to say.
I tried not to think about it.
But even as a child, you know what it feels like to be the second option.
Being present, but never chosen
When we were seven, my younger brother was born.
Another boy.
And once again — the same favoritism.
The first night they brought him home, my mother cried with happiness while stroking his head. I heard her say:
“Thank God, another boy.”
That sentence stuck in my chest like a thorn.
My role was to distract my twin brother so he wouldn’t feel jealous of the baby.
No one cared about my jealousy.
I was there —
but I was never anyone’s priority.
Watching someone else live the life you hoped for
When my sister was born, I thought maybe things would change.
That as girls, there would finally be some balance.
But no.
She was treated the way I always hoped to be treated.
My mother dressed her in new clothes, took her everywhere, showed her off.
My father bought her a pink bicycle with a basket.
For me, there was always an excuse:
“There are hand-me-downs.”
“You don’t need new things.”
So I grew up watching her be treated like a princess —
while I became another pair of helping hands in the house.
The small things hurt the most
If my brother misbehaved, it was “boys being boys.”
If I did the same thing, it was “shameful.”
If he got a good grade, he got a gift.
If I got straight A’s, I barely got a “good job.”
My mother always called me to help:
watch the kids, clean, take care of things.
My brother was never asked to do anything.
When I was 14, I told my father I wanted to become a nurse.
He said I’d be better off learning how to cook and clean — because one day I’d “serve my husband.”
My brother was told they would support him in anything he wanted.
The pattern never changed
As adults, the favoritism didn’t disappear — it just became quieter.
When my twin brother got his first job, they threw him a party.
When I graduated from technical school, I got a quick hug because “they had to go out.”
When my sister had her first child, my mother dropped everything to help her.
When I was sick for a week, they brought me some painkillers — and that was it.
The favoritism was never imaginary.
It lived in:
-
the Christmas gifts
-
the permissions
-
the opportunities
-
the words they chose
-
and the words they never said
I was always the daughter who helped, solved problems, showed up —
never the one they were proud of.
The truth I finally accepted
Now, at 33, I can say it out loud:
Yes.
My parents loved me less.
I’m not ashamed to admit it.
It’s sad — yes.
But it also brings clarity.
Because it taught me something important:
Love doesn’t always come from the people who are supposed to give it.
Sometimes, you have to build it yourself.
And I did.