Are you also sensitive

It Was Never About Kurkure

1 min read

2 hours ago

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People will think this story is childish. “Kurkure? That’s what hurt you?”
But it was never about Kurkure.
Yesterday, my brother got two packets. He ate one and hid the other. I was sleeping, so I didn’t know. When I asked later, my mother denied it—until she was caught. She had bought it and hidden it for him.
That lie hurt more than hunger ever could.
From childhood, I’ve seen the same pattern. My brother got more and more care, more chances, more forgiveness. I accepted it. I adjusted. But when I did the same things, I was scolded, and he was rewarded again.
I don’t feel jealous. I feel hurt.
I can tolerate unfairness, silence, even neglect but not lies, especially from the one person I love the most.

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My mother is the only person I love in this world, and that’s why the pain goes deeper.
I don’t have anyone else. My brother hates me and I hate my father. My home often doesn’t feel like home.
So no, this isn’t immaturity.

It’s years of small wounds adding up.
It was never about Kurkure.
It was about truth, trust and wanting to matter.