Being the second child.

Throughout these seventeen years of my life, there hasn’t been a day where I can happily say my mother loves me just as much as my sister.

I have always felt the partiality. Be it whatever. On how she speaks to her in a different tone, or answers her questions patiently. I’ve also been compared, but thanks to my endless protests and arguments about how I am not her, the comparisons have reduced a little.

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Many a times, this partiality has made me feel so.. So unwanted helpless. No matter what I do, deep down I know the efforts are futile, and for once I know the future holds the same old unhappiness I have always felt.

My grandmama once told me,”You think she doesn’t love you, but you’re everything to her.” Maybe it’s these words that have always made me want to do things right, and just be able to feel like I matter to her.

Eventually, there are moments like this, where my sister and mom are conversing and here I am complaining about the love I don’t receive.

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