I was the eldest daughter in a big English family, living in the countryside near Oxford. I was in charge of feeding everyone, caring for my siblings, and making sure they got off to nursery and school. My parents never once asked if I wanted that responsibilityit was simply handed to me, as if it were my fate from birth.
I barely had any friends, for there was never a spare moment to meet them. Other girls at school teased me, saying all I was good for was wiping runny noses and changing nappies. It cut me to the quick, and I often wept quietly over it. My father would notice and, instead of comforting me, took to lashing me with his belt, saying he was beating the nonsense out of my head.
I scarcely recall those years as a childhood at all. When I finished my GCSEs at the local comprehensive, my parents decided for me that I would enrol in the nearby college to train as a cook, reasoning that with such a skill I’d always be able to keep the family well fed.
After three years, I secured a job at a small café in Oxford. My father immediately pressured me to pinch food to bring home, but I flatly refused. Mother turned this into an accusation of selfishness, claiming I was letting everyone starve. They took my first earnings from me as well. When I clutched my second pay packet, I could take no moreI slipped away, boarded the first train out of the city, not even noticing which direction I was heading. I only knew I had to escape; staying would have meant the end of me.
It was difficult, I cant deny that, but being my parents servant had been far worse. I made a promise to myself then: I would carve out my own life, regardless of the cost. I scrubbed floors, swept up after closing, and eventually was promoted to dishwasher. Only then was I allowed a place in the kitchen.
As my wages grew, I saved every last pound, dropping coins into a stoneware piggy bank. I longed for my own flat where I could decide my own fate, far from anyone else’s demands. During this time, I lived with my grandmother in her terraced house in Reading. She charged me a token rent, and in return, I helped her with the garden and housework. She was a substitute for the family Id left behind, always greeting me after work with a steaming mug of tea and her famous apple pie. In those small moments, I felt blissfully happy.
In time, I met the man who would become my husband. There was no grand wedding; we simply signed the register one afternoon and that was that. I moved in with his family in Banbury, and within the year, our daughter was born, soon followed by a son.
As the years passed, I dreamt often of my parents, the home Id left behind. I spoke to my husband, and we decided together to visit. I bought armfuls of gifts and braced myself for a warm reception. Instead, when we arrived at the old house, Mum and Dad met me with shouts and insults. My brothers had turned to drink, and my sister was on a downward spiral herself.
They paid no attention to the fact I was no longer alone, nor did they bother to greet their grandchildren. The door was slammed in our faces. Call it petty if you wish, but I simply gathered the children and our bags and did not look back. Not even a funeral could draw me there again.
