Why Should I Care Now? Meet Andrew, the Golden Boy

“You know, Savannah, not everyone is meant to shine,” Mum said, her voice slicing through the kitchen’s stale air as she scraped burnt toast into the bin. I was fourteen, standing by the fridge, clutching my GCSE revision notes, and I remember thinking: if I disappeared right now, would she even notice? Andrew was already out the door, rugby kit slung over his shoulder, Mum’s smile following him like a loyal dog.

That was years ago, but the words still echo in my mind as I stand outside her hospital room at St Thomas’. The corridor smells of disinfectant and old fear. My phone buzzes—Andrew again. “Savannah, you’re coming, right? She keeps asking for you.”

I stare at the screen. Why should I care now?

Growing up in Croydon, Andrew was the golden boy. He had Mum’s eyes and Dad’s confidence. He won medals, got into Oxford, and even when he crashed Dad’s car at seventeen, Mum blamed herself for not warning him about black ice. Me? I got a B in maths and was told I should’ve tried harder. I learned early on that love in our house was conditional—earned with achievements I never seemed to have.

Dad left when I was sixteen. He said he couldn’t take the constant tension. “You two need to sort yourselves out,” he told Mum and me before slamming the door for good. Andrew was away at uni by then, sending home postcards from rowing regattas and May Balls. Mum cried for days, but never once did she ask how I felt.

I moved out at eighteen, scraping by on a barista’s wage while studying art at Goldsmiths. Andrew sent money sometimes—always with a note: “Mum says you’re struggling. Let me know if you need anything.” I never replied. He meant well, but every pound felt like charity from a brother who’d never had to fight for approval.

Now, years later, Mum’s had a stroke. Andrew calls me from his office in Canary Wharf. “She needs us, Sav. She’s asking for you.”

I want to scream: Where were you when I needed you? But instead I say nothing and hang up.

The hospital room is small and cold. Mum looks shrunken, her hair thin against the pillow. She turns as I enter, her eyes flickering with something—hope? Regret? “Savannah,” she croaks.

I sit by her bed, arms folded. “Andrew said you wanted to see me.”

She nods, tears welling up. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For everything.”

The words hang between us like smoke. Sorry for what? For years of being invisible? For every time she told me Andrew was special and I was… not?

Andrew arrives an hour later, all crisp suit and nervous energy. “Sav! You made it.” He hugs me awkwardly. “Mum’s been asking for you all week.”

I glare at him. “Funny how she remembers me now.”

He sighs. “Look, can we not do this? She’s ill.”

I snap. “You don’t get it, Andrew! You never have. You were always the favourite—the one who could do no wrong.”

He looks wounded. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mum starts to cry softly. “Please… don’t fight.”

But it’s too late—the dam has broken.

“Do you remember my art show?” I ask her. “The one you didn’t come to because Andrew had a rugby match?”

She nods weakly.

“And when Dad left—did you ever ask how I felt? Or was it just about Andrew?”

She tries to speak but chokes on her words.

Andrew steps forward. “Savannah, she’s sorry—”

I cut him off. “Let her speak for herself.”

Mum reaches for my hand with trembling fingers. “I was wrong,” she whispers. “I thought… if I pushed you, you’d be strong like your brother. But I see now—I hurt you.”

The anger drains out of me, replaced by something colder: exhaustion.

After that day, Andrew takes charge—organising carers, sorting paperwork, making sure Mum has everything she needs. He calls me every few days: “Can you pop round? She wants to see you.” Sometimes I go; sometimes I don’t.

One evening, after another tense visit, Andrew corners me outside the house.

“Why are you so angry?” he asks quietly.

I laugh bitterly. “You really don’t know?”

He shakes his head.

“You got everything—her love, her pride, her attention. All I got was what was left over.”

He looks away. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But it still hurts.”

Weeks pass. Mum’s health declines. The doctors say it won’t be long now.

One night she asks me to stay over. We sit in silence watching EastEnders reruns until she falls asleep. In the dark, I whisper: “Why did you love him more?”

She stirs but doesn’t answer.

At her funeral, Andrew gives a eulogy about family and forgiveness. People hug me and say how proud Mum was of us both. I smile politely but inside I’m numb.

Afterwards, Andrew finds me by the church gate.

“Are we alright?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe one day.”

He nods and walks away.

Now it’s just me in my tiny flat in Peckham, surrounded by unfinished canvases and unanswered texts from Andrew.

Sometimes I wonder—if things had been different, would I have cared more? Or is there a point where love just runs out?

Tell me—what would you have done in my place? Would you have cared for someone who never cared for you?