As the eldest daughter in a large English family, I found myself responsible for feeding everyone, looking after my siblings, and making sure they got to nursery or school on time. My parents never asked if I was happy about it; it simply became my life.
There was never any time for friends, so I hardly made any. Other kids at school would mock me, calling me the nappy-changer. The teasing hurt so much that I often ended up in tears. When my dad noticed, hed lose his temper, lashing out at me with his leather belt and telling me he was knocking some sense into me.
I missed out on a childhood. After finishing my GCSEs at the age of sixteen, I had little say in what followed Mum and Dad decided I would study catering at the local college, convinced that would at least ensure the family was well fed.
Three years later, I landed a job in a nearby café. Dad pressured me to pinch food and bring it home, but I refused. Mum accused me of being selfish, insisting that my siblings had to go hungry because of me. They claimed my first wages as their own. When I managed to keep my second pay packet, Id had enough. I fled that night, jumped on the first train leaving the station, and didnt look back. I didnt care where the train was heading, as long as I escaped.
Life was tough as I started againbut it was nothing compared to being trapped as my parents skivvy. I resolved to work for my own future, no matter what I had to do. I scrubbed floors, swept up, eventually worked my way up to washer-up, and only then was I allowed to help in the kitchen.
Even when I was earning more, I saved every penny in a battered old piggy bank. My dream was to buy a flat of my own, a place where I was in charge for once. The whole time, I lived with my elderly gran, paying her a token amount for lodging, and helping her with odd jobs. She felt more like true family than anyone else. Each time I came home from work, shed greet me with a cup of English tea and warm scones or a homemade pie. It was in those moments that I felt pure happiness.
It was around then that I met the man Id later marry. There was no lavish wedding, just a trip to the registry office. Soon after, I moved into his parents house. Not long after, our daughter was born, and then a son followed.
Eventually, memories of my family crept back into my dreams. I talked it through with my husband and we decided to pay them a visit. I arrived with armfuls of gifts, hoping for a warm reception. Instead, the moment I walked through the door, I was met with shouting and insults. My brothers had turned to drink and my younger sister seemed lost too.
My parents barely glanced at their grandchildren, shutting the door in our faces without a word. Some might judge me, but I turned away and left, presents still in hand. Ive not been back sincenot even for a funeraland Im at peace with that decision.
