I took the gifts and left for good
I was the eldest in a large family, raised in a small village near Birmingham. The weight of caring for my younger siblings fell entirely on my shoulders. I fed them, nursed their colds, walked them to nursery and school. My parents never asked if I wanted this—they just ordered, “You must!”—and that was that.
I had almost no friends. There was no time for them, and the other children mocked me, calling me “nanny” or “doormat.” Their words burned like fire, and I often cried, hiding in the shed. My father, seeing my tears, would grab his belt. “Get that nonsense out of you!” he’d shout, and every strike hurt not just my body but my soul.
I never had a childhood. After Year 11, my parents decided I should become a cook—so the family would never go hungry. They sent me to a local college without even asking me. I obeyed, as 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. My mother lashed out at once. “Selfish! You’re starving your own family!” They took my first paycheck without a word. When the second came, I packed my things and ran. Bought a ticket for the first train I saw, not caring where it went. The only thing that mattered was escaping that hell. I knew—if I stayed, my life would be over.
It was hard. I took any work I could find—scrubbing floors in office buildings, sweeping streets—until I landed a job washing dishes at a diner. After years, they finally let me near the kitchen. I saved every penny, even as my wages grew. The dream of my own flat, where I could be the master of my fate, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Margaret, who became closer than family. She charged me next to nothing for rent, and in return, I helped around the house. Every evening, she welcomed me with a steaming cup of tea and freshly baked biscuits. In those moments, I felt truly happy.
Eventually, I met James, my future husband. We didn’t have a proper wedding—just signed the papers at the registry office. I moved in with his parents, and a year later, I had a daughter, then a son. Life seemed to settle, but the shadows of the past never left. My parents started appearing in my dreams—their stern faces, their shouts. I told James, and we decided to visit them. I wanted to make peace, show them their grandchildren, rebuild the bond. I filled bags with gifts—chocolates, fruit, meat—and prepared with trembling hope.
But when I crossed the threshold of my childhood home, I wasn’t met with hugs, but curses. My parents hurled insults at me, and my father even raised his fist. My brothers had turned to drink; my youngest sister had fallen in with a rough crowd. No one even glanced at my children, no one asked how I’d been all these years. My mother slammed the door in my face, shouting, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, gripping the heavy bags. Some might call me petty, but I turned, took the gifts, and left. For good. I won’t even return for their funeral.
