I was the eldest in a large family, growing up in a small village near Manchester. The weight of caring for my younger siblings fell squarely on my shoulders. I fed them, nursed their colds, and walked them to school and nursery. Parents never asked if I wanted this—they just barked, “Do it!”—and that was that.
Friends were scarce. My time was spent elsewhere, and my peers mocked me, calling me “nanny” and “doormat.” Their words stung, and I often cried, hiding in the shed. My father, seeing my tears, would reach for his belt. “I’ll beat the nonsense out of you!” he’d shout, every strike aching not just in my flesh but in my soul.
Childhood passed me by. After finishing secondary school, my parents decided I’d train as a cook—so the family would never go hungry. They packed me off to a local college without asking my opinion. I obeyed, as always, clenching my teeth.
Three years later, I got a job in a small café in the city. My father demanded I bring food home, but I refused. Mum lashed out: “Selfish! The family’s starving because of you!” They took my first paycheck without a word. When the second came, I packed my things and ran. 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—scrubbing floors in hallways, sweeping streets—until I landed a job as a dishwasher in a diner. Years passed before they let me near the kitchen. I saved every penny, even as my wages grew. The dream of my own flat, where I’d be master of my fate, kept me going. I lived with an elderly woman, Margaret, who became closer than family. She charged barely anything for rent, and I helped around the house. Every evening, she’d greet me with steaming tea and warm scones. In those moments, I felt truly happy.
Then I met Daniel, my future husband. We didn’t have a 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 better, but the shadows of the past lingered. My parents haunted my dreams—their harsh faces, their shouts. I told Daniel, and we decided to visit them. I wanted to make peace, show them their grandchildren, rebuild what was broken. I filled bags with treats—sweets, fruit, a joint of beef—and prepared with trembling hope.
But when I stepped through that door, I wasn’t met with embraces—only curses. My parents spewed insults, and my father even raised his fist. My brothers were drunk wrecks; my youngest sister had fallen in with a bad crowd. No one glanced at my children, no one asked how I’d been all these years. Mum slammed the door in my face, screaming, “Traitor!” I stood there, stunned, gripping the handles of those heavy bags. Maybe some would call me petty, but I turned around, took back the gifts, and left. For good. I won’t even return for their funerals.
