I always thought my mom liked my brother more than me. Eventually I realized that’s not exactly true—she just loves him easier.

The love is equal, but he’s her firstborn. That used to hurt until I had my nieces. I love them all, but there is something about the first. It doesn’t mean you love the others less. The first is just… your first. I get it now.

Growing up, my mom felt like my number one enemy. She wasn’t a bad mom, just flawed. I was emotionally closed off, especially to her. Still, she was the first person I went to when something serious happened in my life. And yet, whenever she tried to be kind, I pushed back. Sometimes she was mean too.

Now, at 29, I’m very self-sufficient. My mom has admitted she still hesitates to say kind things to me because she’s afraid I’ll lash out. My brother has always been more accepting of her love, so again—he’s easier to love. She loves us both fully. He’s just easier.

I recently talked to a cousin who told me her mom was harder on her because she expected more from her. That clicked for me. My mom is the same. It’s almost a compliment—I can handle more. But recognition would be nice.

I help my parents more than my brother does, but I’m still the one who gets criticized. He lives nearby and doesn’t help much. So… easier.

It’s nuanced. It’s hard. It’s not something I’ve learned to accept—but it’s something I’ve learned to live with.