**My Rules**
It’s not uncommon—Emily never knew her father. He left her and her mother just after she was born. They lived in a small town in a terraced house, scraping by. Her mother wasn’t one for coddling. From childhood, Emily could light the fireplace, tend the garden, and run to the shops alone.
She was a straight-A student, loved school, and dreamed of being an actress in a big city. After graduation, she left her sleepy town for Manchester, took the first job she found, and enrolled in university part-time.
“Dreams are dreams,” her mother often said, “but you need a trade that’ll always put food on the table. Actors feast or famine.”
After uni, once she earned more, Emily bought herself a car on finance—not a Bentley, of course, but a modest, secondhand Vauxhall Corsa. Reliable. She drove it proudly back to her mum’s for a visit.
Now she’s got a different car, but she’ll never forget that first one. Spotted it recently in a car park, amazed the old girl was still running. She’d have kept it forever, but… well, life happened. She fell in love. First time, all-consuming. He convinced her to move in together, rented a tiny flat. Soon, he talked her into selling the Corsa.
“It’s on its last legs. Sell it now while it’s still worth something, and we’ll get something newer,” he said.
Emily agreed. Of course she did. Men know these things better than girls, don’t they? She let him handle the sale. Took out another loan for a shiny Ford Fiesta. He promised to help with payments. Drove it more than she did—dropped her off at work, then off on his own errands. Couple payments in, then suddenly, “Sorry, love, skint this month.”
She made excuses for him—she loved him—until the neighbour stopped her in the courtyard. “You know your bloke’s bringing girls back, yeah? Saw him pull up, arm round some tart, stayed three hours.”
Emily’s throat closed. “Yeah, I… know. It’s—” She mumbled an excuse and fled upstairs.
“Bin him, love, before it’s too late,” the neighbour called after her.
That night, she screamed into a pillow, then took the keys and kicked him out.
Left with the car and the debt, she cleaned offices late to keep it secret, tutored evenings and weekends. Came home knackered, but cleared the loan fast. Then came the mortgage—a tiny one-bed flat.
Visiting her mum on leave, the old town felt claustrophobic.
“Where’s your fella? Clock’s ticking,” her mum said. “Pretty girl, car, your own place—what’s the hold-up?”
In a burst of self-pity, Emily spilled the story.
“Too trusting. Big cities chew up soft hearts. Fairy tales lied—no knights left, just freeloaders. Anyway.” Her mum left, returned with a newspaper bundle. “Wedding fund. Not much, but it’ll cover the deposit.”
They wept, hugging.
Back in Manchester, Emily buried herself in work. Mortgage payments ate her weekends. But the flat was *hers*.
By twenty-eight, she’d half-paid the flat, still drove the Fiesta, still wary of men. No rich relatives, no dad to bail her out—just her own grit.
But loneliness gnawed. No time to meet anyone, and trust was thin. She wanted a family, someone to cook for, kids…
Then out of nowhere, her old schoolmate Sophie turned up—bearing jam and pickles from Emily’s mum.
“Lucky you, escaping that dump. Flat, car, proper job. I stayed for Mike. Loved him since school. His mum was poorly—I nursed her, changed her bedpan, the lot. Then she died, and guess what? New teacher in town. Caught them together, went off like a firework. He *defended* her. After all I did!”
Sophie crashed on Emily’s sofa. “Just till I find work.”
A week passed. Then two. Dishes piled up. One morning, Sophie stumbled in at dawn, swaying in Emily’s dress.
“Where’ve you *been*? And why’s my dress—”
“God, relax. It suits me better anyway. Flat as a board, you are.” The seams ripped as Sophie yanked it off.
Emily snapped. “Packed? Good. *Out.*”
Sophie left. The kitchen was a bombsite—crumbs, greasy smears. Emily’s pity evaporated.
Then she found her tutoring cash missing—£3,000, hidden in her knicker drawer.
“Return it, *now*,” she hissed over the phone.
“Didn’t take it!” Sophie shouted.
That evening, the money reappeared—short, tossed on the side with a glare.
“Keep the change,” Sophie sneered, leaving.
Emily felt *guilty*. Like *she’d* stolen it.
Years ago, Sophie’d nicked her favourite pen—a grandmother’s gift. Lied straight-faced. Now this.
She never saw Sophie again.
Half a year later, visiting home, her mum mentioned Sophie was back with Mike—pregnant, covered in bruises. “She brought it on herself,” her mum tutted.
Emily almost visited. Almost. But she didn’t.
That’s when she decided—no more rules. No more side hustles. Life’s too short. She’d start dating again. Go to the cinema, the theatre. Fall in love properly.
**Lesson learned: Trust’s hard-earned, easy-lost. But shutting the door forever? That’s just another kind of prison.**
