The Whitaker family lived in a small flat on the outskirts of Sheffield. The father, John, had been laid off from the steelworks and now drove lorries, disappearing for weeks on long hauls. Their mum, Margaret, worked two jobsday shifts as a cashier and evenings cleaning offices.
Their eldest daughter, 22-year-old Emily, was the familys pride. Mature beyond her years, shed gone straight from school to a local college to train as an accountant, wanting to earn quickly and help her parents. Their whole life revolved around one goalgetting their youngest, little Tommy, into university. Hed shown a knack for maths in primary school, and he was their «family project,» their one hope for a better future.
After classes, Emily did bookkeeping for a local businessman, and at night, when the flat fell quiet, shed open her second-hand laptop and write stories. Gentle, bittersweet tales 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 school friendher only loyal readerconvinced her to enter a writing competition. To her shock, Emily won first prize: a small cash reward and an internship at a newspaper in Manchester.
She decided to tell her parents over dinner while Tommy was doing homework in his room.
«Mum, Dad,» she began, pushing her plate of spaghetti aside. «Ive been invitedto work at the Manchester Chronicle. A month-long internship. Its a real chance.»
«Whats this now?» John frowned, rubbing his tired face. «Youve got a steady job with Mr. Thompson. Good pay, reliable.»
«Its not about that. I… 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 Tommy needs help with his maths!»
«I know. But this is my shot!» Emilys voice wavered. «I could do what I lovejust let me try!»
«Love?» John stood, his shadow looming over her. «Whos going to put food on the table, then? You think I drive lorries for fun? You think your mum scrubs floors for love? No! Its duty! And here you are, chasing dreams while Tommys futures at stake. Not a word more about this nonsense till hes at uni.»
«Its not nonsense!» Emily shot up. «Why does Tommy get to dream of Oxford, but I cant want a job at a paper?»
«Because hes a lad! Hell provide for a family one day!» John barked. «Your job is to marry well and not shame us! Sitting here scribbling fairy tales instead of finding a husband!»
Those words cut deeper than anything. Emily stepped back, staring at their weary, angry faces. They didnt see her as a personjust a helper, a prop for Tommy. 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 Tommys tutors*. She walked out with just a rucksackher laptop, a change of clothes, and printed copies of her stories.
The internship wasnt paidthe paper used it to scout new writers. Writing assigned articles was nothing like crafting her own tales. Journalism wasnt the creative paradise shed imagined, just another grind. But Emily loved itthe people, the buzz, seeing life from new angles.
Manchester was expensive. She stayed in a hostel near work and picked up night shifts at a café. Days were interviews and edits; nights were serving tables. She lived on tea and stale sandwiches, permanently exhausted.
One night, her mum called. Margarets voice was raw:
«Em… Your dads in hospital. His heart. At work, he just… Hes been beside himself since you left. Are you even eating properly?»
Emily glanced at her dinnera dried-out sandwich. Her chest ached with guilt and self-pity.
«Im fine, Mum,» she lied. «Hows Tommy?»
«Misses you something awful. His marks have slipped. I cant help him with his work…»
«Hell manage, Mum. Send him my love. And Dad… tell him Ill visit soon.»
But she didnt. Instead, she sent half her meagre wages home, keeping just enough to scrape by. It was hard, but for the first time, she was free. Stories filled her head, and she wrote nearly every night. One got published in a literary magazine. They paid peanuts, but when Emily 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 shared flat with a leaky ceilingand felt like the luckiest person alive.
Then Tommy showed up at her door. Taller, scowling.
«Em,» 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 furious. Their grand plans ruined.» He gave her a bitter look. «Know why? Because Ive always hated maths. I just wanted to cook. But I was too scared to say ittill you left.»
He walked away. In that moment, Emily realised her escape hadnt just saved her. It gave Tommy the courage to break free too.
***
A year later, a letter came from her dad. Short, scribbled in pencil on lined paper.
*»Love. Mum says youre in the papers now. Saw your name in a mag at a motorway café. Told the ladsThats my girl. They didnt believe me. Take care. Miss you. Dad.»*
Emily read it a dozen times. It wasnt forgiveness. It was acknowledgement. Proof she existedthat her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her damp balcony. Rain fell. The roof leaked. Neighbours argued. But as she looked out at Manchesters wet rooftops, she knewthis life, with all its struggles and guilt, was hers. She wasnt just «support» or «a function.» She was Emily. A writer. The author of her own story. And that was everything.
