Growing up, I always knew my mother had a favorite—my brother Daniel. He got the best gifts, endless praise, and all her attention. I was told to “be understanding” and faded into the background. Every milestone of his erased me a little more.

At eighteen, I left home without goodbye, hoping my absence would wake her up. It didn’t. Weeks became years. She never called.

Twelve years later, I’d built a new life. I found love, real love, and was getting married. The ceremony was perfect—until a man burst through the doors, breathless, shouting, “STOP! Or I’ll never forgive myself!”

The room froze. I didn’t recognize him at first. Then he ran to me, tears streaming. “Daniel?” I whispered.

He nodded, pulling me into a hug. “I’ve looked for you for years,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry for how Mom treated you. You didn’t deserve it.”

His words broke something open in me. Then he said softly, “I named my daughter after you—so she’d grow up knowing the sister I lost.”

In that moment, the pain I carried for over a decade began to heal. I hadn’t lost my family. I’d just found it in a different form.