My mother always sided with my stepdad, Geoff. One night the weight of it pressed down like a stone, and I swore to put an end to the endless circus.
For years I lived under the same roof with my mother, Agnes, and my little sister Milly. Grandmother Nell, who kept a cosy cottage just a short bus ride away in the rolling hills of Derbyshire, would drop by with fresh scones and stories of the old farm. I have no memory of my own father at all, only the faint echo of the man who once held Millys hand.
At first Geoff seemed gentle, a polite neighbour who tipped his hat. But once I was there, he and my mother slipped into a fog, as if my very existence had been erased from their minds. He would raise his hand against me, the slap echoing like a distant thunderclap. I wept in secret, too shy to spill the tea of my hurt to my motheruntil the day she saw the bruise herself, bright as a scarlet sunrise.
The revelation sparked a fierce quarrel; the house shook, pictures fell, and Geoff vanished from our lives as if swallowed by a black hole. From then on it was just the three of us, and a strange, quiet happiness settled over us. Grandmother Nell often looked after Milly, humming lullabies that felt like wind chimes in a misty garden.
When I finished school, I dreamed of studying abroad, perhaps in the sunkissed streets of Barcelona, but the pull of home was stronger than any foreign promise. I stayed in Manchester, the city where my roots tangled with the cobblestones.
One evening, Agnes suggested a curious plan: we would sell both my mothers terraced house on Cheetham Hill and Nells cottage, and use the proceedsenough pounds to buy a threebedroom flat in a sleek new blockso we could live together under one roof again. We agreed, and soon the moving trucks arrived like silent swans. I took a small room for myself, Milly stayed with Nell in a snug attic flat, and Agnes claimed the third bedroom. The flat smelled of fresh paint and new possibilities; everyone seemed to smile with a softness that felt almost unreal.
In the hallway, Agnes met our neighbour, Mr. Whitaker, an elderly widower who spent his days polishing antique clocks. He was as old as my mother and had long been divorced, yet from that moment on he showered her with attention, sending her roses that seemed to bloom in the middle of winter. She blossomed, her laughter echoing through the corridors like wind through wheat.
Later, Agnes invited my uncle Robert to move in. He decided to rent out his own flat, and at first everything felt right, a snug puzzle fitting together. Then his words turned sharp, his jokes turned cruel, especially toward me. He would sneer, Youll never make it out of this city, and his disdain hung heavy in the air. Arguments crackled between us like static, yet Agnes always chose his side, wrapping him in a blanket of loyalty.
The tension grew until I could no longer breathe within those walls. I booked a spot at a university in Bristol, packing my things as if the world were a suitcase. My mother seemed untroubled, a sigh of relief escaping her lipsshe no longer had to balance the seesaw between me and Uncle Robert. Yet the relief tasted sour; I felt as though I had traded my own child for another mans approval, a bargain no dream should ever make.
In the pale light of that departure, the city stretched out like a strange, shifting tapestry, and I wondered how one could ever exchange a child for the fleeting affection of a stranger.
