The Whitmore family lived in a cramped council flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. The father, Nigel, had been laid off from the factory and now worked as a lorry driver, spending months on the road. His wife, Margaret, juggled two jobscashier by day, office cleaner by night.
Their eldest daughter, 22-year-old Emily, was the pride of the family. Mature beyond her years, shed gone straight from school to a local college for accounting, eager to start earning and helping her parents. Their entire world revolved around one goal: getting their youngest, Alfie, into university. The boy had shown a knack for maths in primary school, and he was their golden ticket, their one shot at upward mobility.
After classes, Emily did bookkeeping for a local businessman, and at night, when the flat fell quiet, shed crack open her second-hand laptop and write. Gentle, bittersweet stories about people who dreamed, loved, and searched for their place in the world. It was her escape from the grind and exhaustion.
One day, her old schoolmateher one loyal readerconvinced her to enter a writing contest. To her shock, Emily won first prize: a modest cash reward and an internship at a regional newspaper in Manchester.
She decided to tell her parents over dinner while Alfie was upstairs doing homework.
Mum, Dad, she began, pushing her plate of spaghetti aside. I got an offer. From the *Manchester Courier*. A month-long internship. Its a real chance.
What *Courier*? Nigel frowned, rubbing his tired face. Youve got a steady job with Mr. Thompson. Good money there.
Its not about the money. Ive been writing stories. And someone noticed.
Margaret stopped washing up. She turned, drying her hands on her apron.
Stories? Emily, when did you even have time? You need your sleepyouve got work! And Alfies maths revision!
I know. But this is *my* chance! Her voice wavered. To do something I love. Just to try!
Love? Nigel stood, his shadow looming over her. Whos putting food on the table, then? You think Im hauling freight for fun? You think your mum scrubs floors for the joy of it? Noits duty! And here you are, chasing fairy tales while Alfies futures on the line. Not another word about this nonsense till hes in uni.
Its *not* nonsense! Emily shot up. Why does Alfie get to dream of Cambridge, but I cant have a shot at writing?
Because Alfies the *son*! Hell provide! Your job is to marry well and not shame us! Sitting here scribbling stories instead of finding a decent bloke!
The words stung worse than a slap. Emily stepped back, staring at their weary, hardened faces. They didnt see *her*just a helper, a support act for Alfie. Arguing was pointless.
Fine, she whispered. Fine.
The next morning, she left almost all her prize money on the kitchen table with a note: *For Alfies tutors*. She walked out with just a rucksackher laptop, a change of clothes, and printed copies of her stories.
The internship was unpaidthe papers way of scouting new writers. Churning out assigned articles wasnt half as thrilling as her own tales. Journalism, it turned out, was less creative paradise and more deadline chaos. But Emily loved it: the people, the buzz, seeing life from angles shed never imagined.
City living was pricey. She bunked in a hostel near work and picked up night shifts at a café. Days were interviews and edits, nights were slinging coffees. She survived on tea and toast, permanently sleep-deprived but wired on adrenaline.
One night, Margaret called, her voice ragged.
Em Your dads in hospital. His heart. Collapsed at work. Hes beenwell, hes been beside himself since you left. Are you eating at least?
Emily glanced at her dinnera stale sandwich. Her chest ached with guilt and self-pity.
Im fine, Mum, she lied. Hows Alfie?
Misses you rotten. Grades slipping, wont focus. I cant help him with it
Hell manage, Mum. Send him my love. And Dadtell him Ill visit soon.
But she didnt. Instead, she sent half her meagre wages home, barely keeping herself fed. It was hard, yesbut with the struggle came freedom. Stories buzzed in her head, and she wrote nearly every night. One got picked up by a youth lit magazine. The pay was pitiful, but when she saw her name in print, she cried right there by the newsstand.
Six months later, the paper hired her full-time. She rented a tiny room in a dodgy shared house with a leaky ceiling and felt like the luckiest girl alive.
Then Alfie showed up. Taller, scowling.
Sis, he said, not stepping inside. Im not going to uni.
Emily froze.
What? But you
Culinary college. To be a chef. Mum and Dad are losing it. Their golden boys quit. His voice was bitter. Know why? Because I *hate* maths. Always wanted to cook. But I was too scared to say it till you left.
He turned and walked off. In that moment, Emily realised her escape hadnt just saved *her*. It had given Alfie the guts to rebel.
***
A year later, a letter arrived from Nigel. Scrawled in pencil on lined paper.
*Love,
Mum says youre in the papers now. On a job in Leeds, saw your name in some mag at a café. Told the lads you were mine. They didnt believe me. Look after yourself. Miss you. Dad.*
Emily read it a dozen times. It wasnt forgiveness. It was acknowledgment. Proof she existed, that her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her rickety balcony. Rain drizzled. The roof leaked, the neighbours bickered, but as she gazed at the wet rooftops of her new city, she knewthis life, with all its mess and exhaustion and guilt, was *hers*. No longer just a prop or a function. She was Emily. Writer of stories. Author of her own life. And that was priceless.
