Mum keeps telling me off for not helping with my poorly brother, but after school I packed my bags and ran away from home.
Emily sat on a bench in Manchester Park, watching the leaves swirl in the chilly autumn breeze. Her phone buzzed again—another message from her mother, Emma: *”You abandoned us, Emily! Daniel’s worse, and you’re off living your own life like you don’t care!”* Every word stung, but Emily didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Inside, guilt, anger, and sorrow fought like tugging ropes, pulling her back to the house she’d left five years ago. At eighteen, she had made a choice that split her life clean in half—*before* and *after*. Now, at twenty-three, she still didn’t know if she’d done right.
Emily had grown up in the shadow of her little brother, Daniel. He was three when the doctors said it—severe epilepsy. From then on, their home turned into a hospital ward. Mum, Emma, gave herself to his care—pills, doctors, endless tests. Dad walked out, unable to handle the strain, leaving Emma alone with two kids. Emily, just seven, became invisible. Her childhood vanished into Daniel’s needs. *”Em, help with Dan,”* or *”Em, don’t make noise, it’ll upset him,”* or *”Em, not now—I’ve got too much on.”* She bore it, but year by year, she felt her own dreams slipping further away.
By her teens, Emily had learned to be the *easy* one. She cooked, cleaned, watched Daniel while Mum dashed between hospitals. Her schoolmates asked her to hang out, but she always said no—she was needed at home. Emma would pat her shoulder: *”You’re my rock, Em.”* But the words didn’t warm her. Emily saw how her mum looked at Daniel—with love and despair—and knew she’d never get that same gaze. She wasn’t a daughter; she was help, there to make life easier. Deep down, she loved her brother, but the love was sour with exhaustion and resentment.
By sixth form, Emily felt like a ghost. Her classmates talked about uni, parties, futures—she could only think of medical bills and Mum’s tears. Once, coming home, she found Emma sobbing: *”Daniel needs new treatment, and we can’t afford it! You’ve got to help, Em—get a job when school’s done!”* That’s when something snapped. She looked at her mum, at Daniel, at the walls that had choked her all her life, and knew—if she stayed, she’d disappear forever. It hurt, but she couldn’t be what they wanted anymore.
After A-Levels, Emily packed a rucksack. She left a note: *”Mum, I love you, but I have to go. I’m sorry.”* With five hundred quid saved from odd jobs, she bought a train ticket to London. That night, as the train rolled south, she cried, feeling like a traitor. But beneath the shame, something new pulsed—hope. She wanted to live, learn, breathe without glancing back at hospital corridors. In London, she rented a tiny bedsit, waitressed, enrolled in an Open University course. For the first time, she felt like a person, not just a pair of hands.
Emma never forgave her. The first months were full of shouting calls, begging her to come back. *”You’re selfish! Daniel suffers without you!”*—each word cut like glass. Emily sent money when she could, but she wouldn’t return. Over time, the calls lessened, but every text dripped with blame. She knew Daniel struggled, knew Mum was worn thin—but she couldn’t carry that weight anymore. She wanted to love her brother as a sister, not a nurse. Still, every time she read Mum’s messages, she wondered: *”If I’d stayed, who would I be?”*
Now, Emily lives her own life. She’s got an office job, mates, plans for a master’s. But the past won’t fade. She misses Daniel—his grin on good days. She loves Mum, but can’t forget her stolen childhood. Emma still writes, and every message feels like an echo of the house Emily fled. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever go back, explain, make peace. But she knows this: the day that train took her from Manchester, she saved herself. And that truth—bitter as it is—keeps her going.
