For as long as I can remember, I was always the outsider in my own family.

While my sister was adored, I was the youthful mistake my parents never tried to hide. “You were an accident,” my mother would say coldly. “I only married your father because I got pregnant. We didn’t even want to live together.” Those words, repeated throughout my childhood, cut into my soul like knives.

When I was three, she arrived — Lucía. From her very first cry, my younger sister received all the attention: the finest flamenco dresses, toys from the April Fair, coins for ice cream whenever she wanted. If she broke something, my parents laughed. If I so much as breathed wrong, they scolded me: “Look how perfect Lucía is, and you…”

I grew up invisible in Málaga, living in the shadow of that green-eyed angel everyone adored. I learned to defend myself at school, to study in silence, to swallow my tears. No one ever asked how I was doing.

At twenty, I ran away to Seville without saying goodbye. My parents never called. When I dialed their number, all I heard were polite, distant phrases — like I was speaking to strangers.

Then I met Javier. He loved me with no pretenses, made me his wife in a simple wedding in Granada, and gave me two children who are the light of my life. For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged.

Lucía still lived with our parents — demanding, spoiled, and single. No suitor from Córdoba or Huelva was ever good enough for her.

When our father fell ill, I sent 300 euros every month from our modest home. Javier, bless his heart, never complained.

One day, Lucía showed up, criticizing our humble living room:
“You live like royalty in Madrid and send crumbs. Is this how you repay everything they did for you?”

I held back my trembling and replied:
“What did you ever give me? I cleaned strangers’ houses just to afford a pair of boots, babysat for scraps of bread while you vacationed in Marbella.”

She even tried to manipulate Javier, eyeing everything in our home — down to the kitchen tiles.

That very day, I transferred 500 more euros and sent a 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 never a “sorry,” never a “we love you.” Only more demands.

Forgive them? Maybe — if they ever acknowledge that I exist.

Until then, I am a mother, a wife, a woman. And that… doesn’t that deserve respect?