For as long as I can remember, I was always the outsider in my own family.
My sister, Lucianne, was adored from the moment she was born. From her very first cry, she was showered with attention, with everything she could ever want — the finest flamenco dresses, toys from the April Fair, coins for ice cream whenever she wanted. If she broke something, my parents would laugh it off, as if she could do no wrong. On the other hand, when I so much as made a mistake, I was sc0lded har$hly. “Look at how perfect Lucianne is, and you…” my parents would say, making it clear that I was the disappointment.
“You were an acc!dent,” my mother would often remind me, her voice cold and distant. “I only married your father because I got pregnant. We didn’t even want to live together.” Those words, repeated again and again throughout my childhood, cut into my soul, leaving deep scars. It seemed like my existence was nothing more than a mistake.
Lucianne, always the center of attention, seemed perfect to everyone around her. I grew up feeling invisible in Málaga, living in her shadow. I learned to defend myself at school, to study in silence, and to swallow my tears. But the one thing I never learned was to feel seen, to feel valued. No one ever asked how I was doing, and it felt as though I was only there to serve as a backdrop to Lucianne’s perfect life.
At twenty, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left for Seville without a word to anyone. My parents never called. When I reached out, the only responses I received were polite, distant phrases — as if I were a stranger.
Then, I met Joshi. He was different. He loved me without pretenses, without reservations. He made me his wife in a simple wedding in Granada, and together, we had two children who became the light of my life. For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged, like I mattered.
Meanwhile, Lucianne remained at home with our parents — spoiled, demanding, and single. No suitor was ever good enough for her, no one from Córdoba or Huelva would ever measure up to her high standards.
Then, Lucianne showed up one day, and with one glance at our humble living room, she started criticizing us. “You live like royalty in Madrid and send crumbs. Is this how you repay everything they did for you?” she asked, her voice dripping with judgment.
I could feel the heat rising in my che$t, the anger bubbling up from all the years of neglect and frustration. My voice trembled, but I pushed forward.
That day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I transferred 500 more euros into their account and sent a simple message:
“I hope this erases whatever memory you have of me. I don’t ask for love. I just want you to leave my family in peace.”
There was no apology, no acknowledgment, no “I’m sorry” from them. Only more demands. More requests for what they thought was owed to them.
Forgive them? Maybe — if they ever acknowledge that I exist.
Until then, I am a mother, a wife, and a woman. And doesn’t that deserve respect?
It took me a long time to realize that my worth isn’t defined by my family’s approval. After all the years of being ignored, treated like a mistake, I finally recognized that I had built a life that was worth living — one filled with love, respect, and the joy of being seen for who I am.
In the end, it’s not about the money or the sacrifices I made. It’s about the fact that I’ve learned to value myself. I’m not just the woman who was ignored for so long. I’m the woman who found her strength, her voice, and her place in the world. And that — that is worth everything.
