✨PREVIEW✨ Loved. But never LIKED.

Ebz Dixon
Jul 28
6 min read

“Who the hell you talking to?”

That’s the first thing I said to Yvonne. Loud. Clear. In front of all of Brixton.

It was Sunday, and we were standing in the middle of Maxine’s Hair & Beauty, and I was fresh from court — silk blouse, blazer still buttoned, heels clicking like confidence. And she had the nerve, the unfiltered gall, to say,

“Yuh too old fi still be so desperate, Sabrina. Try ease off the pick-me vibes.”

Desperate?

Me?

Sabrina Alicia Thompson, BA Hons, Solicitor of the Senior Courts of England and Wales, called to the bar on a rainy Tuesday in 2016 while Yvonne was still sending microwave plates to her second babydaddy locked up in Thameside?

No sah.

I turned, dropped my folder on the salon counter, and said it loud — “Who the hell you talking to?”

Maxine paused mid-lash-fill. A customer in the corner fake-scrolled. Even the wax pot stopped bubbling.

Because when I speak, people listen. Even the ones who claim I talk “too proper” for a Thompson.

Let me explain.

I’m thirty-five. Montego Bay born. UK raised from eleven. And if you ask any of my three sisters — Yvonne (56), Janice (53), and Denise (49) — they’ll tell you I’m the spoilt one.

Why? Because I was the only one Daddy married into. The legitimate child.

As if I had anything to do with that.

As if I was in the room when he buttoned up that cream linen suit and said “I do” to my mother in front of a judge and Jesus.

They’ve resented me since I was old enough to read full sentences and pronounce words like “client” with a silent T.

Yvonne, the eldest, runs a mobile waxing business and behaves like she’s the matriarch of South London.

She always looks tired and permanently unimpressed. And somehow, everything I do is “extra.”

Janice lives in Croydon and sells candles she claims are spiritually blessed by Ethiopian priests, but I’ve seen her bulk buy them from TK Maxx.

She calls me “Westernised” like it’s a sin, but her WhatsApp status literally says BOSS BITCH VIBES ONLY.

Then there’s Denise, who swears she was a model in the 90s. She was on a flyer for a club once. Still living off the fumes of that.

All three of them treat me like a smart little orphan that got lucky.

They only message me when someone’s in trouble.

“Sabrina, mi son in a mess — yuh know if police can search a locker?”

“Sabrina, mi babydaddy tek me name off the tenancy — is that legal?”

“Sabrina, mi lose mi job. Can yuh fix mi CV?”

Never:

“Sabrina, how are you?”

“Sabrina, do you want to come over?”

Sabrina, do you need anything?”

Love? No.

Tolerated? At best.

And they always try to “little girl” me, like I didn’t bury the same father they did.

Maxine’s was just the boiling point.

Yvonne sat there with her half-dyed wig and her attitude, telling me that men only wanted me because I was convenient. That I wasn’t wife material. That my face was “too serious” and my clothes “too foreign.”

I had to laugh.

“I’m not the one with three babyfathers and a glittery waist trainer,” I told her. “At least I can keep a man away when I want to.”

That’s when Denise jumped in, bare chest, no warning.

“Yuh see it? This is why we cyaan deal wid you. Yuh too spiteful. Always have to act like yuh better cause yuh name in wedding certificate.”

I don’t act like I’m better.

I just am tired.

Tired of dimming.

Tired of apologising for being the only one who left MoBay without a child and a curse.

Tired of fixing problems for people who would step over me if I fell flat on Coldharbour Lane.

That night, I got home, kicked off my shoes, and didn’t cry.

I wanted to.

But I’d already done that last week after dinner with an ex who told me,

“You’re incredible, but you don’t need anyone. That’s intimidating.”

I don’t need you?

Maybe I just didn’t need him.

I poured wine. Opened my blinds. Stared out at the road below.

Somewhere out there, people were having fun. Laughing. Being liked.

Me? I was in a gorgeous flat in Streatham Vale. Surrounded by certificates, with family who envied me and men who desired me — but not one soul who saw me.

Properly.

And that? That hurts more than being alone.

I took out my phone, opened Notes, and wrote:

"Loved by men.

Tolerated by sisters.

Admired by strangers.

But me? I’m still learning to like myself.

One day, I’ll stop trying to earn the affection they think I was born with."

I hit save.

Then I stood up, peeled off the blazer, and blasted Vybz Kartel loud enough to piss off every neighbour.

Because even if I’m lonely, I’m not soft.

Even if I’m broken, I’m still expensive.

And even if they don’t like me?

I’ll learn to like myself first.

Chapter Two – Diagnosed, Disappointed and Done with Men

I sat in that sterile GP room in a paper gown that barely closed at the back, hands sticky with nerves, listening to Dr. Atwal say the words that made the last ten years of my life click into place.

“Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. PCOS. That’s what’s been causing the heavy periods, the nausea, the mood swings… all of it.”

She said it gently, like it was a kitten I should be grateful to adopt. But me? I just sat there thinking:

So it wasn’t all in my head? I wasn’t being dramatic? I wasn’t just ‘extra’ like Yvonne swore every time I had to lie down with a hot water bottle and tears?

And then, as she talked on about hormone imbalance and ovarian follicles, I thought about Mum.

Marie.

God rest her soul and her stubborn silence.

She used to have periods that lasted two weeks. I remember her curled up on the edge of the sofa, whispering to Jesus between clenched teeth, a flannel over her eyes and her dress hitched above her knees.

Gran Maud sharp as cutlass, hard as boiled yam used to say,

“Is just a likkle woman’s suffering. Drink some cerasee and push through.”

Now I’m wondering if they had it too.

Undiagnosed. Unspoken. Unfair.

The night I got my diagnosis, I walked home in a daze. Rain threatening. South London sky grey like old rice water.

I got in, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the bathroom floor like some modern tragic heroine, white tile, wool coat still on, mascara surviving. Barely.

What if I can’t get pregnant?

I mean… yes, I don’t have a man. But that’s not for lack of trying.

The men I meet don’t want real women. They want a reality show fantasy. They want breasts, bum, vibes, but no conversation. No questions. No complications

No me.

They say things like, “You’re wifey material still... but you move too serious.”

Or worse, “You look like the type to talk about feelings. I don’t do that.”

All they want to do is fuck. No dates. No plans. Just vibes and disappearing acts.

I was born in the wrong era.

Where’s the man who’ll turn up with a mango and a plan?

Where’s the damn courting?

I changed into my fluffiest robe, made some ginger tea (real ginger, not that Tetley foolishness), and flopped into bed with my phone.

Googling:

PCOS fertility

PCOS weight gain

PCOS and depression

Will I ever have children with PCOS?

That last one took me down a rabbit hole I wasn’t ready for.

I scrolled past forums filled with women with the same ache in their gut and hope in their fingers.

Some did IVF. Some went natural. Some gave up and got cats.

Me? I just started to cry. Quietly. Because sobbing at full volume feels too dramatic when you live alone and your neighbours already think you’re a witch.

I thought about Mum and Dad.

They tried for ten years before I came.

IVF in the late 80s. That’s how I got here.

All those hormones, injections, clinic visits. All those prayers whispered into bed sheets.

And now here I am, a miracle baby… terrified I’ll need a miracle too.

My phone buzzed. A text from a man I’d been seeing casually. Or rather, a man who’d been casually seeing me.

Him: U up? Wanna come over and chill?

Translation: Bring your ovaries, forget your boundaries.

I blocked him.

Then opened my notes app and typed:

“Dear Future Husband,

If you exist, don’t text me ‘u up?’ at midnight. Call me at 6.45pm and say, ‘I bought oxtail, come eat.’