Sable Monroe

You Cannot Earn a Place They Already Decided Not to Give You

Some children grow up believing love is performance-based.

Be helpful.

Be obedient.

Get good grades.

Clean the house.

Give your parents money.

Answer every phone call.

Run every errand.

Become successful.

Take care of them when they get old.

Never embarrass the family.

Never say no.

And maybe, if you do enough, one day they will finally look at you the way you have always wanted them to.

Maybe they will appreciate you.

Maybe they will finally acknowledge everything you have done.

Maybe you will finally become the good child.

The favorite child.

The one they brag about.

The one they protect.

The one whose feelings matter.

I have some bad news.

You could cure fucking cancer and still not get the role.

Because in some dysfunctional families, the hierarchy was never based on merit.

That is what makes the game so cruel.

You think you’re competing.

They already cast the parts.

I have watched this happen in my own family.

The child who gives more is not necessarily the child who is loved more.

Sometimes the less-favored child becomes the worker.

The dependable one.

The one who sends money.

The one who handles emergencies.

The one who makes appointments.

The one who takes care of the parent.

The one everybody calls because they know that child will actually get shit done.

Meanwhile, the favorite child may contribute considerably less and somehow remain the favorite.

And the responsible child keeps working.

Maybe a little harder will do it.

Maybe another sacrifice.

Maybe another check.

Maybe another holiday spent doing what everyone else wants.

Maybe if I am there when Mom gets sick.

Maybe if I pay this bill.

Maybe if I let her live in my house.

Maybe then she will see what I have done for her.

Oh, she’ll see it.

She may even expect more of it.

That does not mean the hierarchy will change.

That’s the part people don’t like to say.

Being useful to someone does not mean they value you.

Those are two very different things.

People value electricity too.

They notice very quickly when it stops working.

That doesn’t mean they love the electrical grid.

Sometimes the dysfunctional parent doesn’t look at the sacrificing child and think, My God, look how much this person loves me.

They think:

Of course she did it.

Because that’s your role.

You are the responsible one.

Your sacrifice becomes ordinary.

The favorite child’s smallest contribution can become extraordinary.

They show up once and everybody applauds.

You have been showing up for twenty years and somebody asks why you didn’t bring dessert.

That is how family roles work when nobody questions them.

The mistake is believing extraordinary performance will eventually force somebody to rewrite the script.

Sometimes it won’t.

Because favoritism isn’t always a reward for goodness.

It can be about identification.

Compatibility.

Gender.

Personality.

Loyalty.

Who makes the parent feel important.

Who reflects the parent’s values.

Who is easiest to control.

Who is most like them.

Who they decided belonged to them.

None of those things necessarily have anything to do with who treats the parent best.

That’s why kissing ass can become such a terrible investment.

You’re depositing into an account that may never pay interest.

I learned this early enough to save myself a lot of labor.

My mother had a role for me.

I was supposed to help.

I was supposed to work.

I was supposed to contribute.

I was supposed to make her life easier.

Somehow I was also supposed to go to college under circumstances she had made extraordinarily difficult.

I was supposed to give her my paycheck.

I was supposed to help carry the household.

I was supposed to remain available.

Had I done every single thing expected of me, perhaps my mother would have been happier with me.

But would she have loved me differently?

I don’t think so.

And that distinction matters.

A parent can be pleased with your usefulness without changing how they fundamentally see you.

I left at eighteen.

In doing so, I ruined the arrangement.

My labor went with me.

My future earnings went with me.

My availability went with me.

Whatever caregiving plans anybody had quietly built around my presence went with me too.

And eventually I realized something that made the decision even easier to live with:

I had relatives who stayed.

I got to watch what happened to people who continued performing family loyalty long after I stopped.

One of my relatives was not her mother’s favorite child either.

She still remained loyal.

She worked.

She sent money.

She provided resources.

She allowed her mother to benefit from property she owned.

She gave.

And gave.

And gave.

Her mother still preferred the other daughter.

There it was.

The answer to the experiment I had declined to perform with my own life.

You can give everything and still remain exactly where they placed you.

That doesn’t mean nobody should ever help their parents.

It doesn’t mean generosity is stupid.

And it doesn’t mean caring for an aging parent is inherently exploitation.

If you love doing it, do it.

If it reflects your values, do it.

If you can give without destroying yourself, wonderful.

But know why you are giving.

Because if somewhere underneath all that service is a child whispering:

Maybe this will finally make Mommy love me.

I want you to hear something.

It may not.

I know that hurts.

It is still cheaper than spending another twenty years finding out.

You should not have to purchase parental love with labor.

And if someone decided long ago that your sibling was the special one, your becoming more useful may simply make you the useful one.

Not the favorite.

Not the beloved one.

Not finally enough.

Just more useful.

At some point, you have to decide whether you are living according to your values or still auditioning for your childhood.

There is dignity in helping people you love.

There is no dignity in slowly disappearing while hoping somebody will eventually reward you for it.

So send the money if you truly want to send it.

Take Mom to the doctor if that is what you want to do.

Help with the house.

Make the phone calls.

Provide the care.

But stop treating sacrifice like currency you can exchange for a different childhood.

Some parents will happily take everything you offer.

Your money.

Your time.

Your labor.

Your youth.

Your emotional energy.

Your loyalty.

Your entire fucking life.

And after consuming all of it, they will still look across the room at somebody who did half as much and say:

That’s my favorite.

Stop auditioning.

The part was never yours.

Go live your life