The Barlow family lived in a pebble-dashed council flat on the outskirts of town. The father, Nigel, had been made redundant from the factory and now worked as a lorry driver, disappearing for weeks on end. His wife, Margaret, juggled two jobscashier by day, office cleaner by night.
Their eldest daughter, 22-year-old Emily, was the familys pride. Wise beyond her years, shed skipped university and gone straight to accounting college, eager to earn and help out. Every sacrifice was for their youngest, little Alfie, whod shown a knack for maths in primary school. He was the family project, their one shot at upward mobility.
After classes, Emily did the books for a local tradesman, and late at night, when the flat fell quiet, shed crack open her secondhand laptop and write stories. Gentle, aching tales about dreamers and misfitsher escape from the grind.
Then one day, her old schoolmateher only loyal readertalked her into submitting a story to a competition. To her shock, Emily won. The prize? A modest cheque and an internship at a regional newspaper.
She broke the news over dinner, while Alfie was upstairs doing his maths homework.
Mum, Dad, she began, nudging her plate of baked beans aside. Ive been offered an internship. At the *Herald*. Its a month-long. A real chance.
The *what*? Nigel rubbed his tired face. Youve got a steady job with Dave down the high street. Proper work.
This is different. Ive… been writing stories. They noticed me.
Margaret stopped scrubbing the pan. Turned, tea towel in hand.
Stories? Her voice was pure bafflement. Emily, when dyou even find the time? You need your sleep! And Alfies algebra wont tutor itself.
I know. But this is *my* shot! Her voice wobbled. I could actually do something I love. Just let me try!
*Love*? Nigel stood, his shadow swallowing her. Whos meant to put food on the table, eh? You think I drive that lorry for fun? You think your mum cleans offices for kicks? Noits duty! And here you are, chasing pipe dreams!
Its not a pipe dream! Emily shot up. Why does Alfie get to dream of Oxford, but I cant even
Because Alfies a *boy*! he bellowed. Hell provide! Your job is to marry decent and not shame us! Faffing about with fairy tales instead of finding a husband!
That stung worst of all. She stepped back, staring at their weary, bitter faces. To them, she was never a personjust a helper, a prop for Alfie. Arguing was pointless.
Fine, she whispered.
Next morning, she left almost her entire prize money on the kitchen table with a note: *For Alfies tutors*. All she took was a rucksacklaptop, spare clothes, and printed stories.
The internship paid nothingjust how papers found fresh writers. Churning out local news was nothing like her fiction, but Emily adored it: the buzz, the people, seeing life from new angles.
City living was pricey. She bunked in a hostel, waitressed nights, survived on toast and tea.
Then one night, Margaret called, voice ragged: Em Your dads in hospital. Heart scare. Hes been well, beside himself since you left. You eating proper at least?
Emily eyed her stale sandwich. Guilt gnawed at her.
Im fine, Mum, she lied. Hows Alfie?
Moping. Grades slipping. Cant focus.
Hell manage.
She didnt visit. Just sent half her wages home, keeping barely enough to scrape by. Hard? Yes. But for the first time, she was free. Stories poured out of her. One even made it into a literary magno pay, but seeing her name in print? She cried at the newsstand.
Six months later, the *Herald* hired her. She rented a leaky bedsit and felt like the luckiest soul alive.
Then Alfie turned up, taller, glowering.
Em, he said, not crossing the threshold. Not going to uni. Changed my mind.
She gaped.
What? But you
Culinary college. Wanna be a chef. Mum and Dad are gutted. He gave a bitter laugh. Know why Im doing it? *Because I hate maths*. Always wanted to cook. But till you left, I was too scared to say.
He walked off. And suddenly, Emily understoodher escape hadnt just saved her. It gave Alfie the guts to rebel too.
***
A year later, a letter arrived from Nigel. Scribbled in pencil on lined paper:
*Love,
Mum says youre in the papers now. Stopped at a service station, saw your name in some magazine. Told the lads you were mine. They didnt believe me. Look after yourself. Miss you. Dad.*
Emily read it twenty times. Not forgiveness. But acknowledgmentthat she existed. That her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her damp balcony. Rain fell. The roof dripped, neighbours bickered, but as she gazed at the wet rooftops of her new city, she knewthis life, with all its struggles, was *hers*. No longer just support or duty. She was Emily. Writer. Author of her own story. And that was everything.
