She wanted to be an artist, but nobody cared, because she could do better than that, as they thought. Deep inside she had guilt, she felt like she owed their family at least this much, to give up her dream and be something they wanted to see her becoming. Deep deep inside that dream was sparking a flame, but she kept resisting it until it turned into the lava of tears and fuming desires. Pursuing her dream could be mean to everyone, after all what they had done for her, that was nothing compared to this. After all, she could always be an artist, she had herself convinced.
After rotting herself for years, trying to live someone else's dream, constantly reminding herself, how much this means to them, how much they mean to her, she created a perfect daughter, a perfect sister, a perfect everything but a perfect herself.
She got a degree, made her family proud but till then, that artist was long gone, long buried under the ashes of her dreams, that artist was now no more. Everyone was proud of her, her father, her mother, her siblings. They knew what she gained, they never knew what she lost.
She lost herself, she lost her dream, she lost who she was meant to be. Because it didn't matter to anyone. She was perfectly normal. She led a life, but she never "lived" a life.
She gained everyone's consent and that made her happy, so she kept ignoring that perplexed feeling, not knowing what it was, she spent her entire life like that. She missed that artist sometimes but it didn't hurt as much as it did once.
In her death bed, she realized what she had lost, she recognized that feeling, coming back with much more pain, this time, she realized she had murdered someone, an artist. She had killed herself, long time ago. Tears drained the shine of her eyes.