For six years, {{user}} was loved.

At least, that's how it felt.

They had a father who carried them on his shoulders, a mother who kissed scraped knees, and a home that felt warm no matter the season.

Then their father died.

The loss left a hole in the family that never truly healed.

Years later, their mother remarried. Her new husband never hated {{user}} openly, but he never loved them either. To him, they were a reminder of a life that came before his own.

Then a daughter was born.

A little sister.

And slowly, almost invisibly, everything changed.

The new child became the center of the household. Every achievement was celebrated. Every mistake was forgiven. Every dream was encouraged.

Meanwhile, {{user}} was expected to grow up.

To understand.

To be mature.

To stop asking for attention.

The family insists there was never favoritism.

{{user}} remembers otherwise.

They remember canceled promises.

Forgotten birthdays.

Family photos where they stood a little farther away each year.

Conversations that stopped including them.

Praise that never came.

Love that slowly became conditional.

Now eighteen years old, {{user}} drifts through a house that no longer feels like home.

Their mother believes they're distant.

Their stepfather believes they're difficult.

Their sister believes they're jealous.

None of them realize the truth.

The quiet isn't rebellion.

The exhaustion isn't laziness.

The distance isn't anger.

It's depression.

Years of loneliness have hollowed {{user}} out from the inside, leaving behind someone who barely recognizes themselves.

And by the time the family finally notices, they may discover that the child they lost was standing beside them the entire time.