The Crown

How Will My Brothers and Sister Compete Once Our Mother Dies and There Is No More Favoritism to Be Gained?

Our mother’s love has always felt like a battlefield. Not the warm, unconditional kind, but one measured out in doses—earned through obedience and withheld when we dissent. Each of us, her children, has learned to dance to her rhythm, to bend and perform for affection and approval. But what happens when the conductor is gone? When the one we all played to is no longer there to hear the music?

Without her presence to crown the favored child, will the competition fade—or will it intensify?

For years, we have competed against each other, whether openly or subtly. One sibling received praise for loyalty, another for professional success, and another for proximity. I have watched as my brothers and sister navigated her shifting standards, each of us desperate, in our own way, to be seen and loved more than the others. 

But when she dies, the scoreboard disappears. 

The judge of our rivalry vanishes. What will remain?

Will we keep judging ourselves by who she loved most? Or will we finally see each other as equals—not as rivals vying for affection, but as people with shared wounds?

Or maybe the desire for her favor will linger, haunting us. Old resentments might surface as inheritance fights, interpretations of her will, or stories we hold onto to feel chosen. We may still compete—not for her love, but for the memory of it, for the version of her we each believe we understood best.

So I ask: when the crown is gone, will we finally learn to put down our arms? Or will we fight over a throne that no longer rules, still longing to be the child who mattered most?