I was the eldest in a big family, growing up in a small village near Manchester. The weight of caring for my younger brothers and sisters fell entirely on my shoulders. I fed them, nursed their colds, took them to nursery and school. My parents never asked if I wanted this—they’d just bark, “You have to!”—and that was that.
I hardly had any friends. There was no time for them, and the other kids mocked me, calling me “the babysitter” or “the doormat.” Their words burned, and I’d often cry, hiding in the shed. When my dad saw my tears, he’d grab his belt. “I’ll knock the nonsense out of you!” he’d shout. Every lash hurt—not just my skin, but my soul.
I never really had a childhood. After Year 11, my parents decided I should train to be a chef—so the family would never go hungry. They sent me to a local college without even asking what I wanted. I obeyed, gritting my teeth, like always.
Three years later, I got a job at a small café in the city. My dad demanded I bring food home, but I refused. Mum lashed out at me: “Selfish! The whole family’s starving because of you!” They took my first paycheck without a word. When I got my second, I packed my things and ran. I bought a ticket for the first train out, not caring where it went. The only thing that mattered was escaping that hell. I knew if I stayed, my life would be over.
It was hard. I took any work I could find—scrubbing floors in office buildings, sweeping streets—until I landed a job as a dishwasher in a restaurant. It took years before they let me near the kitchen. I saved every penny, even when my pay went up. The dream of having my own flat, of being the one in charge of my life, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Margaret, who became closer to me than family. She charged me next to nothing for rent, and I helped her around the house. Every evening, she’d greet me with hot tea and fresh scones. In those moments, I felt truly happy for the first time.
Eventually, I met Daniel, my future husband. We didn’t have a big wedding—just signed the papers at the registry office. I moved in with his parents, and within a year, we had a daughter, then a son. Life seemed to settle, but the ghosts of the past wouldn’t leave me. My parents started haunting my dreams—their harsh faces, their yelling. I told Daniel, and we decided to visit them. I wanted to make peace, show them their grandchildren, rebuild something. I filled bags with treats—chocolates, fruit, a nice cut of beef—and went there with hope fluttering in my chest.
But when I crossed the threshold of my childhood home, I wasn’t met with hugs—just curses. My parents hurled insults, and my dad even raised his fist. My brothers were alcoholics now; my younger sister had fallen in with a bad crowd. No one even looked at my kids or asked how I’d been all these years. Mum slammed the door in my face, shouting, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, gripping the handles of those heavy bags. Maybe some would call me petty, but I turned around, took all the treats back, and left. For good. I won’t even return for their funerals.
