My very own mother kicked me out of the flat because she fancied my stepdad more!
I lived with my dad until I was fivethose were easily the golden years of my childhood. When he passed away, my mum suddenly stopped caring much about me and decided to focus on living her best life. By the time I was eight, Id acquired a stepfather, a man who treated the house like his kingdom and us like nervous little servants. My entire world spun on its head.
Everything ran to his schedulehe handed out chores with the enthusiasm of a headmaster at a Victorian orphanage, except he always seemed too tired from work to lift a finger himself. Mum pushed me to obey his every whim, convinced any act of rebellion would spark an argument worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Once I hit my teens, I couldnt resist rebelling anymore. Coming home from school just to cook dinner, scrub the place top to bottom, wash the car, andif inspiration struckwhatever other task stepdad dreamed up, while the lovebirds watched telly in harmony, was a bit much. If I complained, I got a slap and a lecture on just how lucky I was to have parents so generous as to give me so much.
Their generosity, by the way, consisted of a roof over my head and whatever food I earned by dusting every square inch in sight. If I wanted to join a club, get a tutor, or God forbid try a gym class, theyd laugh and say I should learn to earn it before spending anything. Rarely did they buy me clothes. And if, by some miracle, I got a new jumper, theyd remind me for weeks where it came from.
The day I turned eighteen, just after finishing school, Mum announced that it was high time to find my own flat. No university, mind youI was gently told to get a job straight away since I was no longer welcome at Hotel Stepdad.
We come from a small market town where jobs dont exactly grow on trees. Also, lets be honestI wasnt keen to become a wage slave just yet. I secretly hoped my parents would have second thoughts if they saw me happily revising on my own. But Mum only pushed harder, so that last term I worked as a waitress instead of revisingten till midnight shifts, miserable tips, just enough for two months’ rent, and not a clue where my next meal was coming from. Naturally, I tanked my exams and didnt get into a state uni, nor did I have anyone offering to pay tuition fees.
I quit the dead-end waitressing job in the summer and desperately hunted for something better, as every single day Mum and stepdad nagged me about when Id finally leave. In the end, they didnt waitthey chucked me out.
I tried working in a cleaning products shop, but I got mildly poisoned (true story). When I recovered, they told me theyd replaced me with another girl. Months whizzed bynew jobs, new disasters, not a single one where I could actually support myself.
My birthday arrived, slap-bang in the middle of all this, and my Aunt Judy turned up for a visit. I hadnt breathed a word to anyone before, but when she asked how I was, alone, I burst into tears and told the lot. That same day, she helped me pack up my things and moved me in with her. My parents wish had been grantedI was out of their hair, and Id never felt lighter.
Aunt Judy helped me get a decent job at the local bookshop. I finally had time to study, and the following year, I passed my A-levels and got into a state university all on my own. Aunt Judy helped me with everythingshe never let me stew in self-pity, especially when my parents phoned to remind me how ungrateful Id been.
Time passed; I graduated and landed a good job. Now its my turn to look after Aunt Judy. I spoil her, take her on fancy holidaysbecause if it werent for her, Id still be somewhere being told off for my new socks.
