Shattered Echoes

The Middle Daughter

I used to think childhood was supposed to be a carefree dream, filled with laughter and simplicity. But my memories feel more like a weight tied around my ankles, dragging me down into a past I wish I could forget. Being the middle daughter was never a position of privilege; it was a role filled with loneliness, sacrifice, and the constant need to prove my worth in a house where love was rationed and expectations were limitless.

I still remember how my mother poured every ounce of her energy into the family business, her back bent over ledgers and lists while we sat quietly in the corners of her world, waiting for scraps of attention. She was always busy, always distracted, as if running away from the very life she had created. My father, with his temper like a raging storm, would argue with her endlessly, their voices filling the house like thunder, shaking every fragile piece of stability I clung to. While they fought, I became the caretaker - not because I was ready, but because there was no one else.

The weight of being the middle child hit me hard. My elder sister was a force of nature, her jealousy burning bright and unforgiving. She resented me for reasons I never fully understood, lashing out at me with words and actions that cut deeper than any physical wound. I was too young to know how to shield myself from her anger, so I absorbed it all, believing that somehow, I deserved it. And when I grew older, I found myself doing the same to my younger sister, a cruel cycle of envy that none of us could escape. I hated myself for it, but jealousy is an insidious thing - it creeps into your soul and convinces you that you’re not enough unless you take what someone else has.

I became the invisible glue that held our dysfunctional family together, but no one ever noticed the cracks it left in me. At just ten years old, I had already mastered the art of waking up early to clean a house that was never truly clean. My mornings began with scrubbing floors and wiping windows, my hands raw and aching as the rest of the family slept peacefully. My elder sister would sit idly, watching me as though I were a servant instead of her sibling. She didn’t lift a finger until I had already broken my back trying to make the house presentable. My mother would call me constantly, her voice ringing with commands, and no matter how much I did, it was never enough.

“Clean this,” she’d say, even though my arms felt like they would give out. “Help with that,” she’d demand, even though I was just a child trying to catch her breath. I never complained. Not once. I thought that if I worked hard enough, maybe one day she would notice me, maybe one day I would be enough. But parents’ expectations are like bottomless wells - you pour yourself into them, only to find they can never be filled.

I was just a silly, naïve girl back then, carrying the weight of a family that never seemed to appreciate me. I wanted to fit in so badly, to be seen and valued, but the harder I tried, the more invisible I felt. My mother would praise my elder sister’s wit and my younger sister’s charm, but for me, there was only silence. I didn’t have the sharp edges of my elder sister or the innocence of my younger one. I was just… there. The middle daughter. The one who existed to keep the peace, to pick up the pieces, to make sure everyone else was okay while quietly falling apart inside.

I learned so much as a child, more than any child should have to. I learned that love could feel like a debt you could never repay. I learned that no matter how hard you worked, there would always be someone who found it insufficient. I learned that siblings, the people who should be your allies, could also be your fiercest rivals. And I learned that silence was safer than speaking, that invisibility was a shield against the endless tide of criticism and disappointment.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to grow up differently. To have parents who asked how I was feeling instead of what I had done. To have siblings who celebrated my successes instead of resenting them. To wake up in a house that felt like a sanctuary instead of a battlefield. But those are fantasies, fleeting daydreams that dissolve as quickly as they appear.

What stays with me are the memories of my younger self, scrubbing floors with tiny hands that should have been holding toys, not brooms. I see her in the cracks of my reflection, a little girl with tired eyes and a weary heart, wondering why she had to grow up so fast. And I wish I could reach through time to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t deserve the weight of a family’s dysfunction on her small shoulders.

But life doesn’t give us those second chances. All it gives us is the strength to keep moving forward, even when the past clings to us like a shadow. I carry that shadow with me, the weight of being the middle daughter, of being the caretaker, of being the forgotten one. And though it still hurts, I’ve come to realize that maybe, just maybe, the things that broke me also taught me how to survive.