**Diary Entry**
I was the eldest in a large family, growing up in a small village near Manchester. The weight of caring for my younger brothers and sisters fell squarely on my shoulders. I fed them, nursed their colds, walked them to school and nursery. My parents never asked if I wanted this—just barked, “You have to!”—and that was that.
I had almost no friends. There was no time for them, and the other children mocked me, calling me “the nanny” and “the doormat.” Their words burned, and I often hid in the shed to cry. When my father saw my tears, he’d grab his belt. “I’ll knock the nonsense out of you!” he’d shout. Each blow hurt more than just my skin—it wounded something deeper.
I never had a childhood. After Year 11, my parents decided I should train as a cook—so the family would never go hungry. They sent me to a local college without even asking. I obeyed, like always, clenching my teeth.
Three years later, I got a job at a small café in the city. My father demanded I bring food home, but I refused. Mother lashed out: “Selfish cow! The whole family’s starving because of you!” My first wage, they took without a word. When the second came, I packed my things and ran. I bought the first train ticket I could find, not caring where it went. The only thing that mattered was escape. I knew if I stayed, my life would be over.
It was hard. I took any job—scrubbing floors in hallways, sweeping streets—until I landed work as a dishwasher in a café. Years passed before they let me near the kitchen. I saved every penny, even when my pay improved. The dream of my own flat, where I’d be the one in charge, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Margaret, who became closer than family. She charged me barely anything, and I helped around the house. Every evening, she’d greet me with hot tea and fresh scones. In those moments, I finally felt happy.
Later, I met George, my future husband. We didn’t have a wedding—just signed the papers at the registry office. I moved in with his parents, and within a year, we had a daughter, then a son. Life seemed settled, but the past never left me. My parents haunted my dreams—their harsh faces, their shouts. I told George, and we decided to visit. I wanted to make peace, show them their grandchildren, reconnect. I filled bags with gifts—chocolates, fruit, meat—my hands trembling with hope.
But when I stepped through that door, I wasn’t met with hugs. Just curses. My parents hurled insults, and my father even raised his fist. My brothers were drunk wrecks; my youngest sister had fallen in with a bad crowd. No one spared a glance for my children or asked how I’d been all these years. My mother slammed the door in my face, shouting, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, my fingers tight around the heavy bags. Some might call me petty, but I turned on my heel, took back every gift, and walked away. For good. I won’t even return for their funerals.
