I took the gifts and left for good
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—they just barked, “You have to!”—and that was that.
Friends were few and far between. There was no time for them, and the other kids mocked me, calling me “Little Nanny” and “Doormat.” Their words burned, and I often cried, hiding in the garden shed. When my father caught me in tears, he’d reach for his belt. “I’ll knock the nonsense out of you!” he’d shout, and every strike hurt more than just my skin—it split my heart right open.
I never really had a childhood. After finishing Year 11, my parents decided I should train as a cook—so the family would never go hungry. They sent me off to a local college without so much as asking my opinion. Like always, I gritted my teeth and obeyed.
Three years later, I got a job at a little café in the city. My father demanded I bring food home, but I refused. My mother lashed out immediately: “Selfish girl! You’d let your own family starve?” They took my first paycheck without a word. When the second one came, I packed my bags and ran. I bought a ticket for the first train out, no matter where it was headed—just away, far from that nightmare. I knew if I stayed, my life would be over.
It was tough. I took any work I could find—scrubbing floors in council estates, sweeping streets—until I landed a job washing dishes in a bistro. Years passed before they finally let me near the stove. I saved every penny, even when my pay improved. The dream of my own flat, where I’d be the one calling the shots, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Mrs. Evelyn, who became closer to me than family. She charged next to nothing for rent, and I helped around the house. Every evening, she’d greet me with hot tea and buttery scones fresh from the oven. In those moments, I felt truly happy.
Then I met Daniel, my future husband. No big wedding—just a quick trip to 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 shadows of the past lingered. My parents started haunting my dreams—their scowls, their shouts. I told Daniel, and we decided to visit them. I wanted to make peace, show them the grandchildren, mend things. I filled bags with treats—chocolates, fruit, a nice joint of beef—my hands trembling with hope.
But when I stepped through that familiar front door, I wasn’t met with hugs. Just curses. My parents hurled insults, and my father even raised his fist. My brothers were now just drunk wrecks, my little sister tangled up with the wrong crowd. Not one of them glanced at my children or asked how I’d been all these years. My mother slammed the door in my face, yelling, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, gripping the handles of those heavy bags. Some might call me petty, but I turned right around, took back every last gift, and walked away. For good. I won’t even come back for their funerals.
