When I turned fifteen, my parents decided they absolutely needed another child. My brother James arrived, and all the responsibility for him and the house fell on my shoulders. Homework vanished from my schedule, and every slip earned a harsh reprimand. Then my fathers voice cut through the house like a blade: Until your brother finishes school, dont even think about dating! I was forced to make a radical choice.
The news spread quicklyneighbors and relatives congratulated me, but there was nothing to celebrate. I never like to revisit that memory, yet I tell it now.
Mother was thrilled to have a daughter, not because she loved me, but because I became the freerange babysitter. When James turned one, she stopped nursing him overnight and took a fulltime job. Grandmother Nora would drop in at dawn, and by the time I got home from school she was either asleep or already gone. James lay in my care, crying constantly, and I could never calm him.
My day was a relentless loop: change his nappies, wash him, feed him, and keep the kitchen stocked with fresh meals. When my parents walked in the evening to find dirty dishes or unwelcome piles of laundry, they ranted that I was lazy and a parasite. Only then could I sit down with my assignments, which had already fallen behind. School was a disaster; teachers, pitying me, handed out a three for every test, and the punishment only grew harsher.
The washing machine does the washing, the dishwasher does the disheswhat do you do all day? Youre dreaming of parties! my father shouted, while my mother simply nodded, as if shed forgotten what it felt like to spend an hour with a restless child and still get chores done.
Yes, the machines work, but someone still has to load them, hang the clothes, and iron yesterdays shirts. I wasnt allowed to fire up the dishwasher during daylightits power draw was too highso every plate for the kids had to be handwashed. No one envied my endless floorscrubbing; James was a bundle of energy, crawling and running everywhere.
Things eased a little when James started nursery. My parents insisted I pick him up and feed him after school, giving me a few precious hours in the afternoon. I threw myself into my studies and finally passed without the dreaded three.
I dreamed of studying biologythe only subject that ever sparked me. My parents dismissed the idea outright. The university is in the city centre, youll spend an hour and a half commuting. When will you be home? James needs to be collected, then you have to look after him again. Dont even think about it! they said.
With their stubbornness, the next path was forced upon me. The nearest vocational college offered a kitchen course, so I became a trainee pastry chef. I can barely recall the first term; I was, as they say, crushed. Yet I dug in, learning to bake cakes, biscuits, and all manner of desserts.
By the second year I was working parttime on weekends at a café just down the road from our flat. My parents initially complained that I wasnt home, but that job gave me a sliver of independence. After finishing the course, I was taken on fulltime.
Soon a new head chef arrived at the café, and we began meeting after closing. My parents erupted in anger, shouting and cursing. More than once my father showed up after my shift, trying to stop me from walking with my boyfriend. One day they organized a family gathering.
Aunt Agnes and her husband arrived, along with my grandmother and other relatives. They put me in the centre of the room and demanded I abandon any thoughts of a fiancé, dates, or conversation. Youre quitting the café! Aunt Agnes snapped. Ive got you a job as a kitchen assistant at Jamess school. Best news ever! my mother cried. James will be looked after, and you can go straight home in the afternoons. Youll have time to help us.
Giving up the café where I was respected, paid well, and where my boyfriend also worked felt like stepping into a bleak school canteenslippery schnitzels, sticky lasagne, endless chores, a life devoted entirely to James. As long as your brother hasnt finished school, dont even dream of boys, my father warned sternly.
The next day I told my boyfriend everything, and we hatched a plan. Hed always wanted to open his own café; he had saved money, but it wasnt enough. We needed a bank loan or investors. At home I claimed I needed two more weeks of work; my parents agreed to wait out my notice period.
The loan fell through, but a friend of his, a manager at a large restaurant, offered a new project opening in Birmingham. He travelled for an interview, convinced his boss to let me join via video call. While I talked about my experience, he sent over a box of my desserts for the team to taste.
On my final day at the café I left early, slipped home while everyone was gone, packed a bag with documents and savings, and caught the train to Birmingham.
Now I run my own life, one I will dedicate to the people I choose, not the ones who forced me into a corner. I love my brother and truly hope we can build a good relationship someday. I hold no hatred for my parents, but I know that if I stayed under their roof in Manchester, I would remain under their grip. I wasnt strong enough to stand up then, so I fled. I pray that in our new city everything will fall into place and that we will finally be happy.
