The Whitaker family lived in a modest flat on the outskirts of Liverpool. The father, George, had been laid off from the factory and now drove lorries, spending months away on the road. His wife, Margaret, worked 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 studied accounting at the local college to start earning quickly and help her parents. Every sacrifice was made for one goal: sending their youngest, Tommy, to university. Hed shown talent in maths early onhe was their family project, their only hope for a better future.
After classes, Emily worked part-time for a small business owner. At night, once the flat fell silent, shed open her secondhand laptop and write. Gentle, melancholy stories about people who dreamed, loved, and searched for their place in the world. It was her escape from the grind.
One day, her childhood friendher only loyal readerconvinced her to submit a story to a writing contest. To her shock, Emily won first prize: a small sum and an internship at a newspaper in Manchester.
She waited for dinner to break the news, while Tommy did homework in his room.
«Mum, Dad,» she began, pushing her plate of spaghetti aside. «Ive been offered an internship. At the Manchester Post. Its a month-long. A real chance.»
«Whats this about the Post?» George frowned, rubbing his tired face. «Youve got steady work at Mr. Thompsons firm. Reliable pay.»
«This is different. Ive been writing stories. They noticed me.»
Margaret stopped washing dishes. She turned, drying her hands on her apron.
«Stories?» Her voice was thick with disbelief. «Emily, when did you find the time? You need sleep! Youve got work, and Tommy needs help with his maths!»
«I know. But this is my shot!» Emilys voice trembled. «I could do what I lovejust let me try!»
«Love?» George stood, his shadow looming over her. «Wholl put food on the table, then? You think Im in that lorry for fun? You think your mum scrubs floors for joy? Noits duty! And here you are chasing dreams! Not another word till Tommys at uni.»
«Its not nonsense!» Emily shot up. «Why can Tommy dream of Oxford, but I cant aim for the Post?»
«Because hes the son! Hell provide! You? Find a husband, dont shame us. Scribbling tales instead of settling downridiculous!»
The words stung worse than a slap. Her parents didnt see her as a personjust support for Tommy. Arguing was pointless.
«Fine,» she whispered. «Fine.»
The next morning, she left almost all her prize money on the table with a note: *For Tommys tutors*. One backpack held her laptop, spare clothes, and printed stories.
The internship was unpaidthe Posts way of scouting talent. Writing articles wasnt as thrilling as her own fiction. Journalism was less creative heaven, more relentless grind. Still, Emily loved it: the people, the buzz, seeing life from new angles.
City living was expensive. She stayed in a hostel near work and waited tables nights. Days were interviews, typing, edits; evenings, more work. She survived on tea and stale sandwiches, permanently sleep-deprived.
One night, Margaret called, voice hoarse:
«Em your dads in hospital. His heart. At work, he Hes been beside himself since you left. Are you even eating properly?»
Emily stared at her shrivelled sandwich. Guilt and self-pity twisted inside her.
«Im fine, Mum,» she lied. «Hows Tommy?»
«Missing you. Grades slipping. I cant help him»
«Hell manage, Mum. Send him my love. And Dad tell him Ill visit soon.»
She didnt go. Sent half her meagre wages home, keeping just enough to survive. It was hard, but she had freedom. Stories swirled in her mind; she wrote nightly. Another tale was accepted by a youth literary magazine. They paid pennies, but seeing her name in print, Emily wept by the newsstand.
Six months later, the Post hired her. She rented a tiny room in a leaky shared flatand felt like the luckiest woman alive.
Then Tommy showed up. Taller, sullen.
«Sis,» he said, not stepping inside. «Changed my mind about uni.»
Emily froze.
«What? But you»
«College. Chef training. Mum and Dad are furious. Their golden boys failed them.» His voice was bitter. «Know why? Ive always hated maths. Wanted to cook. But till you left, I was too scared to say it.»
He walked off. In that moment, Emily realised her escape hadnt just saved herit gave Tommy the courage to rebel too.
***
A year later, a letter came from George. Pencil on lined paper.
*Lass. Your mum says youre in the papers now. On a job, saw your name in some magazine at a café. Showed the lads. Told emthats my girl. They laughed. Stay strong. Miss you. Dad.*
Emily reread it a dozen times. Not forgivenessacknowledgement. Proof she existed. That her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her dingy balcony. Rain fell. The roof leaked, neighbours argued, but as she gazed at Liverpools wet rooftops, she knewthis life, with its struggles and guilt, was hers. No longer just support or function. She was Emily. Writer of stories, author of her life. And that was priceless.
