My Rules
As often happens, Emily never knew her father. He left her and her mum right after she was born. They lived in a small town in a terraced house. Her mum didn’t spoil her. From childhood, Emily knew how to light the fireplace, weed the garden, and run errands to the shop.
She got straight A’s in school, loved going, and dreamed of becoming an actress and living in a big city. After graduation, she left her little town for Manchester, took the first job she saw in the paper, and enrolled in university part-time.
“Dreams are dreams, but you need a job that’ll always put food on the table,” her mum said. “Actors never know where their next paycheck’s coming from.”
After university, once she started earning more, Emily bought herself a car on finance. Not a Mercedes, of course—a modest, secondhand Hyundai i10, but reliable. She drove it proudly back home to visit her mum.
Now she’s got a different car, but she’ll never forget her first. She even spotted it in town the other day, parked up, and couldn’t believe the old thing was still running. She’d have kept it forever, but… well, she fell in love. First real relationship. He convinced her to move in together, renting a little flat. Soon, he talked her into selling the car.
“It’s old, love. It’ll fall apart any day now. Let’s sell it and get something newer, something that’ll last us years,” he said. “Better to sell while it’s still running and looks decent.”
Emily agreed. What else could she do? Men know these things better than young women, don’t they? She let him handle the sale. To buy the new car, she took out another loan. He promised to help with payments. God, she was thrilled with that Kia.
Somehow, he ended up driving it most days. He’d drop her at work, then go about his business. He chipped in a couple of times, then said he was skint.
She’d have let it slide—she loved him, made excuses—until her neighbour stopped her in the yard and asked if she knew her bloke was bringing other girls round.
“Saw it with my own eyes. Pulled up in your car, arm in arm, upstairs for hours.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s…” Emily, choking on rage, couldn’t think of a reply. “Sorry, I’m in a rush,” she mumbled, hurrying inside.
“Boot him out, love, before it’s too late,” the neighbour called after her.
At home, Emily let the tears and anger loose. When he walked in, she took the car keys and shoved him out the door.
Now she was alone—just her, the car, and the debt. Evenings, she cleaned offices where she worked so no colleagues would know. Took on tutoring jobs, teaching English. Crawled home exhausted, but paid off the loan fast. Then she decided to buy a flat on a mortgage.
During a visit home, her little hometown felt tiny and worn out after the city.
“Why’re you single? Youth doesn’t last forever. Pretty girl like you, with a car,” her mum said, half-admiring.
In a wave of self-pity, Emily told her about the failed relationship.
“Too trusting, you are. Cities are full of rogues and temptations. You read those romance books, but real life’s different. No knights left—just blokes living off princesses. You’ll meet someone.” Her mum left the room, then returned with a newspaper-wrapped bundle.
“Here. Been saving for your wedding. Can’t live in rentals forever. Not much, but enough for a deposit.”
Emily kissed her. They both cried.
Back in Manchester, she bought a tiny one-bed. She only came home to sleep anyway. Kept working and tutoring weekends to pay the mortgage. But no more office cleaning. Exhausted, she still loved coming back to her little flat.
Her sad experience made her wary of men. At 28, she had her flat, half the mortgage paid, a car she used for tutoring.
Everything she got, she earned herself. No rich relatives, no dad to help. Just her.
But her love life? Nowhere. No time to meet blokes, no place to meet them. And when she did, she hesitated to let them in. Wanted marriage, kids, a family—someone to cook for, iron shirts for, welcome home.
Then, out of nowhere, her old schoolmate Sophie turned up. Brought preserves and treats from Emily’s mum, wheedled her address out of her.
“Lucky you, Em. Smart to leave our backwater. Flat, car, good money. I stayed for Mike. Loved him since school, remember? His mum was poorly. Nursed her like my own. Bedpans, spoon-feeding—was it worth it?”
Then his mum died. Mike started talking weddings—until a new young teacher arrived. Sophie kicked off, made sure they’d never forget.
“I nursed his mum, put up with the stink, and he defends that mouse? So I left. Met your mum, got your address. Can I stay a few days? Find work, get a place?”
“Stay. I’m only here to sleep. Can’t even get a cat. I’ll buy a camp bed.”
“Don’t bother. Won’t be long.”
Emily was used to solitude. Couldn’t kick her out, though.
“Go sleep. I’ve got prep to do.”
Later, Emily washed the wine glasses. Sophie had downed half the bottle—no wonder she was tipsy. Surveying her clean kitchen, Emily sighed.
Sophie slept with a hand under her cheek. Emily pitied her—she’d be wrecked tomorrow. “Need that camp bed,” she thought, lying down beside her.
Next morning, Emily’s head throbbed. She silenced the alarm, dozed off, then woke panic-stricken—late! Sophie was hogging the bathroom.
While the kettle boiled, Emily called work. Sophie took her time, humming. Emily nearly banged the door, but held back. Washed at the kitchen sink. Just a few days.
Finally, Sophie emerged, flushed, with a towel turban. “My towel! Didn’t even ask.”
“Hi!” Sophie stretched. “So nice! Bath, hot water—no buckets or stoves. You’ve got it made…” She sniffed. “Coffee smells amazing!”
No chance—Emily drank it herself.
“Sophie, I’m late. New rule: no mornings in the bath. Wait till I’m gone. Then scour the papers for jobs. Fold the sofa. Go.”
“God, relax. Didn’t know. Should’ve said. Everything’s so easy for you. I’m stuck in this depression.”
Lacing her shoes, Emily eyed Sophie. Didn’t look depressed.
“Keys. Lock up. This isn’t the village.”
Useless getting mad, but she couldn’t help it.
That night, cooking dinner, Sophie moaned about job-hunting. “Not like you, swanning about in a car.”
Emily swallowed the jab. “Any luck?”
“Plenty! Just none for me. No education, apparently.”
“Some jobs don’t need qualifications.”
“What, scrubbing loos? No thanks.”
“Expect a manager’s job straight off? That takes know-how, responsibility—”
“Lay off! Let me breathe. Or just say you want me gone.” Sophie’s voice wobbled.
Emily relented. “Sorry. Truce?”
A week passed. No job. Then Sophie stumbled in at dawn, wasted, in Emily’s dress.
“Where’ve you been? And my dress?”
“Ugh, stingy. You never wear it. Flat as a board, aren’t you? Suits me better. Here—take it.” She yanked it off, seams ripping.
“Enough! Dishes piled up, mess everywhere. Here to work or party? Pack up. Go.”
“Em! I’ll clean. Where’ll I go?”
“Not my problem. Should’ve thought sooner.” She almost caved—but no. Let this push her.
Home that evening, Sophie was gone. Dishes done, kitchen filthy. Emily shook her head.
Then she checked her cash stash—tutoring money, hidden under her lingerie. Gone.
“Sophie—my mortgage payment. Give it back.” Emily kept her voice steady.
“What money?”
“Don’t play dumb. You stole it.”
“Your problem. I didn’t take squat.”
Emily hung up, shaking.
That night, Sophie turned up, slamming the cash down—short.
“Keep the change. I’ll pay it back.” She flounced off.
As if Emily was the thief.
She remembered sixth grade—her favourite pen, a granny’s gift, gone. Sophie’s envious looks. Then, there it was, on Sophie’s desk.
“Mine now,” Sophie had said. No shame.
Now? A pen was one thing. Money—different.
Six months later, herSix months later, when Emily finally ran into Sophie at the train station, she barely recognized the tired woman clutching a crying baby—until their eyes met, and all the old bitterness dissolved into something like pity.
