When I turned fifteen, my parents announced, as though it were inevitable, that another child was required. The moment my little brother, Jack, arrived, the whole weight of his care and the houses endless chores fell on my shoulders. Homework vanished, grades slipped, and the punishments followed. Then my fathers voice, grave as a church bell, warned: Until your brother finishes school, dont even think about boys! The decision I had to make felt as sharp as a winters frost.
At fifteen the house swelled with a new infant, and strangers rushed in with congratulations, though I could not muster a smile. I do not relish recalling those days, yet I tell them now.
Mother, Margaret, was pleased not because she adored me, but because I became a freeofcharge babysitter. When Jack turned one, she stopped nursing him overnight and took a fulltime job. Grandmother Doris arrived each morning, then vanished by the time I trudged home from school, either asleep or already back on the road. Jack lay in my care, his cries a constant chorus I could not soothe.
There was no moment for myself. I changed diapers, bathed him, fed him, and prepared fresh meals every hour. When my parents returned after a long day to see dishes piled high or shirts untouched, they berated me as lazy and a parasite. Only then could I sit down to the few minutes of homework I could steal. School performance faltered; teachers, out of pity, handed me threemarks, which only earned more scolding.
The washing machine does the washing, the dishwasher does the rinsingwhat do you do all day? You must be dreaming of parties! my father bellowed, while Mother simply nodded, as if she forgot how it felt to spend a few hours with a restless child and still manage the house.
The machines might spin, but someone still must load them, hang the laundry, and iron yesterdays shirts. The dishwasher stayed off during the dayits electricity was deemed too wastefulso I scrubbed every plate by hand. No one envied my nightly floormopping; Jack was an explorer, crawling, toddling, scattering crumbs everywhere.
Things eased a touch when Jack started nursery. My parents insisted I fetch him and feed him before I went home, granting me a sliver of afternoon for myself. I pressed harder at school, finally graduating without those dreaded threemarks.
I dreamed of studying biology, the only subject that ever sparked my curiosity, yet my parents dismissed the idea.
The university sits in the city centre, youll be commuting an hour and a half each way. When will you be back? Jack needs to be collected, then looked after. Dont even think about it! they said.
Unyielding, they chose a different path. The nearest vocational college offered a course in culinary arts, so I became an apprentice pastry chef. My first term is a blur of exhaustion, a feeling the British now call knockedflat. Slowly, however, I fell in love with whisking batter, shaping dough, and decorating desserts.
From the second year I worked parttime at a weekend café just down the road from our flat. At first my parents complained about my absence, but I defended those rare pockets of personal time. After finishing the course, I was taken on fulltime.
Soon a new head chef arrived at the café. Latenight meetings became common, and my parents complaints turned to curses. My father would appear after my shift, trying to bar me from walking with my boyfriend, Tom. One day they organized a family gathering.
Aunt Harriet and her husband arrived, along with Grandma Doris. They plucked me from the centre of the room and commanded, Forget engagements, walks, any kind of conversation.
Youre quitting the café! Harriet shouted. Ive secured you a kitchenhand spot at Jacks school.
The best news today! my mother exclaimed. Jack will always be looked after, and you can go straight home in the afternoon. Youll have time to help us.
Giving up a job where I was valued, paid, and where Tom worked seemed unimaginable. I pictured a bleak school canteen with slippery schnitzels and sticky noodle casseroles, evenings filled with chores, a life devoted entirely to Jack.
My son, as long as your brother hasnt finished school, dont even dream of a lad, my father warned sternly.
The next morning I confided everything to Tom, and we hatched a plan. He had long wanted to open his own café, saving every penny, though the funds were never enough. A loan or investors were needed. At home I told my parents I needed two more weeks of work; they agreed to wait out my notice period.
We failed to secure a loan, but a friend of Toms, a restaurant manager, suggested a new project launching in Manchester. Tom travelled there for an interview, convinced the head chef to speak with me over video. While I described myself, Tom sent a box of my pastries for them to taste.
On my final workday I left early, hurried home while the house was empty, packed a bag with documents and savings, and caught a train to Manchester.
Now I live a life of my own choosing, not bound to the expectations of those who once dictated my days. I love my brother and truly hope we will one day share a warm connection. I bear no hatred for my parents, but I know that staying under their roof would have kept me under their shadow. I was never strong enough to stand up, so I fled. I pray that in our new city everything will fall into place and that happiness will finally settle over us.
