On my fifteenth birthday, my parents decided they absolutely needed another child. The full weight of caring for my little brother and the housework fell on me. Homework became impossible, and poor grades only brought punishment. Then came the worst decree: Dont even think about boys until your brother finishes school! my father barked. I knew thenI had to escape.
The day my brother, Oliver, was born, everyone congratulated me, but I didnt feel like celebrating. My mother was pleasednot because she loved me, but because shed found a free babysitter. When Oliver turned one, she stopped breastfeeding overnight and went back to work full-time. Granny came in the mornings, but by the time I returned from school, shed either dozed off or left. Oliver was mine to manage. He cried endlessly, and nothing soothed him.
There was no time for myself. Changing nappies, bathing him, cooking fresh mealsevery minute was accounted for. If my parents came home to unwashed dishes or wrinkled laundry, theyd scold me for being lazy, a parasite. Homework happened late at night, if at all. Teachers pitied me, handing out Cs, which only earned me more scorn.
The washing machine washes, the dishwasher cleanswhat exactly do *you* do all day? Too busy dreaming of nightclubs? Fathers shouts filled the house while Mother nodded along, as if shed forgotten what it was like to care for a restless child.
True, the washing machine workedbut someone had to load it, hang the clothes, and iron yesterdays pile. The dishwasher? Banned during the daytoo much electricity. Baby bottles had to be scrubbed by hand. No one envied my endless mopping, eitherOliver crawled everywhere, leaving sticky trails in his wake.
Things eased slightly when he started nursery. My parents insisted I collect him and feed him afterward, but at least I had a few afternoon hours to myself. I studied harder, scraping by without Cs.
I dreamed of studying biologythe only subject that ever held my interest. But my parents refused.
The universitys in central Londonan hour and a half each way! When would you get back? Oliver needs collecting. Dont even think about it.
They were unmovable. The nearest option? A vocational college for pastry chefs. The first term blurred by in a fog of misery, but slowly, I grew fond of itwhipping cream, piping biscuits, crafting desserts. By second year, I worked weekends at a café near our flat. At first, my parents complained, but I clung to those hours like a lifeline. After graduation, they hired me full-time.
Then the new head chef arrived. We began meeting after shifts, and the shouting started anew. Father even turned up mid-shift to drag me home. One evening, they called a family meetingGranny, Auntie, her husbandand circled me like a tribunal.
Forget boyfriends. Forget outings. Youre quitting the café, Auntie announced. Ive got you a job as a kitchen assistant at Olivers school.
Best news all year! Mother cheered. Olivers always looked after, and youll be home by three. Plenty of time to help us.
Leave the caféwhere I was valued, paid, where my boyfriend workedfor a dreary school canteen serving soggy fish fingers and rubbery pasta bakes? I saw my future then: scrubbing pans, folding laundry, a life orbiting Oliver.
No lads until your brother finishes school, Father growled.
The next day, I told my boyfriend everything. We hatched a plan. Hed been saving to open his own place but needed investors. At home, I lied: Two more weeks at work. They agreed, waiting out my notice.
No loan came through, but an old friend of his offered another chancea new restaurant opening in Manchester. He interviewed first, then convinced the owner to video-call me. As I spoke, he unveiled desserts Id made, smuggled in a cooler.
On my last day, I left early. The flat was empty. I stuffed a bag with clothes, grabbed my documents and savings, and caught the train north.
Now, I live my own lifefor those I choose, not those forced upon me.
I love Oliver. I hope one day well be close. I dont hate my parentsbut I know, under their roof, Id never break free. Im not strong enough to fight. So I ran. Here, in this new city, Ill stitch together a happiness of my own making.
