I took the gifts and walked away forever.
I was the eldest in a large family, growing up in a tiny village near Manchester. The weight of caring for my younger brothers and sisters fell onto my shoulders. I fed them, nursed them through colds, took them to nursery and school. My parents never asked if I wanted this—they’d just snap, “You have to!”—and that was that.
I hardly had any friends. There was no time for them, and the other children mocked me, calling me “the babysitter” and “the doormat.” Their words burned, and I often cried, hiding in the old garden shed. When my father saw my tears, he’d reach for his belt. “I’ll beat the nonsense out of you!” he’d shout, and every strike left pain not just in my body but in my soul.
I never had a childhood. After finishing secondary school, my parents decided I should train to be a cook—so the family would never go hungry. They sent me to a local college without even asking what I thought. I obeyed, like always, teeth clenched.
Three years later, I got a job at a small canteen in the city. My father demanded I bring food home, but I refused. My mother lashed out at me: “You selfish girl! The whole family’s starving because of you!” They took my first paycheck without a word. When I got my second, I packed my things and ran. I bought a ticket for the first train I saw, not caring where it was headed—just desperate to escape that hell. I knew if I stayed, my life would be over.
It was hard. I took any work I could—scrubbing floors in hallways, sweeping streets—until I got a job washing dishes in a café. Only years later was I allowed near the kitchen. I saved every penny, even when my pay improved. The dream of my own flat, where I’d be the master of my fate, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Mrs. Wilkins, who became closer than family. She charged me barely anything for rent, and I helped around the house. Every evening, she’d greet me with hot tea and freshly baked scones. In those moments, I felt truly happy.
Eventually, I met Oliver, my future husband. We didn’t have a 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 better, but the shadows of the past wouldn’t leave. My parents started haunting my dreams—their harsh faces, their shouts. I told Oliver, and we decided to visit them. I wanted to make peace, show them their grandchildren, mend what was broken. I filled bags with gifts—chocolates, fruit, a nice joint of beef—and prepared with trembling hope.
But when I crossed the threshold of my childhood home, I wasn’t met with hugs—only curses. My parents spat insults, and my father even raised his fist. My brothers were deep in drink, my little sister mixed up with a bad crowd. No one even glanced at my children or asked how I’d been all these years. My mother slammed the door in my face, shrieking, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, gripping the heavy bags. Maybe someone would call me petty, but I turned around, took the gifts, and walked away. For good. I won’t even return for their funerals.
