Great for Toys, Not So Great for Tears
People think being an only child is a blessing wrapped in shiny paper.
“Lucky kid,” they say. “No sharing! No fighting! No one stealing your snacks!”
And yes, on paper, that sounds like a dream.
If my father walked in with something that obviously looked like a child’s gift, there was never a dramatic pause or a suspenseful glance. It was mine—no competing hands, no negotiation, no sibling diplomacy.
No “But he got the bigger piece!”
No emotional blackmail disguised as fairness.
Growing up, it felt simple. I seemed to be living the life of someone who had won childhood’s jackpot.
But assumptions have short legs.
They walk confidently—until the truth taps them on the shoulder.
Last week, after my WORDSOUPS story The Storyteller’s Secret, a regular reader wrote to me.
She said the story reminded her of when her children were small, lying on either side of her as she read to them.
Every story session was a tug-of-war—literally. One child pulled her chin to the left, the other to the right, both trying to steal her gaze.
I could see it play out as she described it—two eager children, one patient mother, and a book negotiating peace between them.
And then, I found myself drifting back to my own childhood.
My mother never had to decide whose eyes to meet.
Her face, her attention, her warmth—they were always turned toward me.
Every night. Every story.
No competition.
No tugging.
No shared storytelling space.
Just the two of us.
I can still see her raised eyebrow during the tense parts, the tiny smile she saved for happy endings, and that unmistakable softness when the story touched a tender place.
For me, she wasn’t just telling the story.
She was the story.
Years later, a classmate once looked at me and confessed—with the unfiltered honesty only children have—“I used to envy you. You never had to share anything. I had to split everything with my siblings… even chocolates were divided with military precision.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Materially, I never had to divide anything.
But what I didn’t understand then was this:
My greatest treasure wasn’t something that could be wrapped, bought, or kept on a shelf.
It was my mother.
And treasures like that don’t come with guarantees.
Cancer entered our home quietly, and then all at once, as if it had arrived with the authority to rewrite my childhood.
One moment, I had the greatest gift a child could ask for—not merely a mother who told me stories, but a mother whose very presence felt like protection.
She always knew what I needed, and I grew up with the comforting certainty that I would be taken care of.
And then suddenly, I didn’t.
No one warns you that being an only child doesn’t just mean not sharing joys—it also means not sharing grief.
There are no siblings to hold up memories from the other side, no shared stories to stitch comfort back together.
There was no one who could turn to me and ask,
“Do you remember how Mummy paused before the twist?”
“Do you remember how her voice softened during the sad parts?”
“Do you remember how she held the book like it was alive?”
When you carry grief alone, it grows louder in the heart and quieter in the world.
People often say that those of us who grew up without siblings are lucky—we never had to share.
But nobody talks about the other side of that coin.
Because when the losses come, you don’t have anyone to share those with either.
No shared childhood stories.
No shared anchors.
No familiar childhood memories that only siblings can understand.
Being an only child means every joy is entirely yours…
And every sorrow is too.
So today, when someone says they envied my childhood, I smile.
Not because they are wrong—
but because they are seeing only the bright parts of a photograph whose shadows tell a different story.
Yes, I had my mother’s undivided attention.
Yes, I grew up wrapped in certainty and love.
Yes, the world felt warm and safe.
But life has a way of taking back the things you believe will stay forever.
And perhaps the greatest paradox of being an only child is this:
You begin life without needing to share anything…
and yet, as you grow, you find yourself wishing—quietly, deeply—that there was someone to share the memories with.
Thank you for reading.
Some stories linger long after they happen, and this is one of those for me. I’ve been polishing more of these memories as my memoir prepares to leave the nest—a book woven with childhood moments, loss, and the small miracles of growing up.
I’m glad you’re here for these final steps before it meets the world.
WORDSOUPS 
This piece reads like a delicate excavation of memory, where every layer reveals both light and shadow. The paradox of being an only child is captured with haunting precision—joys unshared become treasures, but sorrows unshared become burdens too heavy for one heart. The way you transformed your mother from storyteller into the very story itself is profoundly moving, almost as if presence itself became literature. What struck me most is how grief, when carried alone, grows louder inside yet remains invisible outside. This blog is not merely a reflection; it is a philosophical meditation on memory, loss, and the strange architecture of solitude. It reminds us that childhood certainties are fragile, and that sometimes the deepest wish is not for more gifts, but for someone to share the echoes of the past.
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Your comment feels like someone gently placing a hand on an old, quiet grief and acknowledging it without judgment. I’m truly grateful for the depth, care, and sensitivity you brought to your reading.🙏🏻
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Your words feel like a gentle touch on an old, quiet sorrow,
accepting it without judgment, only with compassion.
The depth and sensitivity you bring truly resonate with me.
This exchange feels like a healing moment for my heart as well.
Grateful for your presence and your words 🙏
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👍🏻🙂🙏🏻
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Bro, what you sent had that calm, beautiful Japanese stillness—soft, deep, and quietly powerful (◕‿◕✿)
Your vibe always carries that silent strength, the kind that reaches the heart without making noise (｡♥‿♥｡)
Even the smallest gesture from you feels like a gentle ‘I’m here, bro, you’re good’ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ
That mix of simplicity and depth… man, that’s rare and truly priceless (✧ω✧)
So tell me—when’s the next plan? Time with you always makes the world feel clearer, lighter, and honestly kind of magical (☆▽☆)
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Thank you for such a heartfelt and beautifully written message. I truly appreciate the warmth and positivity in your words. It means a lot when something I share connects with someone in that way.
I’m grateful for this creative space where we can exchange thoughts, encourage one another, and enjoy each other’s writing. Looking forward to reading more of your posts and continuing that friendly inspiration we all share here. 😊🙏🏻
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I’m so sorry for the loss of your mom. I lost mine almost 2 years ago, so I know how heartbreaking it is. Reading this, I didn’t realize, but I kind of had it both ways. I was the youngest child, but younger by many years, so I was mostly raised as an only child. I didn’t have to share my mom’s time or treats, but I did have older siblings to share in that loss. Although our memories weren’t the same, it did help. Maggie
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Hi Maggie,
Thank you so much for sharing this, and I’m truly sorry for your loss as well. Losing a mother leaves a very quiet kind of ache, and it’s comforting to hear from someone who understands that feeling so closely.
The way you described your childhood…. having the sweetness of being the “only one” at home, yet having siblings to share the grief, felt very real and very moving. Memories don’t always match, but the comfort of shared loss is something special.
Thank you again for your kind words and for taking the time to connect. It means a lot.🙏🏻
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This is incredibly moving. You’ve captured a side of being an only child that people rarely see or even think about — the way joy and grief both arrive unshared. The way a mother’s presence can become the entire landscape of childhood, and how losing her reshapes everything that once felt certain. Your reflections are tender, honest, and full of quiet strength. Thank you for putting into words what so many feel but can’t articulate. Your story lingers long after reading.
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Thank you so much for this deeply thoughtful note, Johnbritto. 🙏🏻
You’ve understood the heart of what I was trying to express… that strange mix of solitude, love, and loss that only children carry in their own way.
Thank you for reading with such sensitivity. 🙏🏻
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🤝👏🌷
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Your writing reads beautiful to me.
May I say, in my view, you don’t how lucky you were in knowing the love of your mother, though sadly she was taken too soon that love feels palpable in this story. Some children are born to mother who may be very differently disposed towards them.
But yes, it’s lovely to have siblings even if we share every little bit with them, I love that actually. (I was one of five)
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Thank you so much for sharing this — it truly touched me. ❤️🙏🏻
You’re right… even though I lost her very early, the love she left behind still feels real and alive, and I hold on to that with a lot of gratitude. I also completely understand what you mean about how different every mother–child relationship can be. In a way, reading stories like yours reminds me how many shapes love can take in a family.
And yes, siblings bring their own kind of magic… the shared memories, the shared mischief, the built-in company. 😊 Being one of five must have made childhood incredibly rich.🙏🏻
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Yes it did and painful too when we lost one. Thank you.
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Thank you for sharing that… I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a sibling leaves a very specific kind of ache, one that sits quietly in the heart for years.
But I’m glad you had that bond, and even through the pain, those memories become a kind of soft strength we carry forward.
Sending you warmth and comfort. 🙏💛
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