The Barlow family lived in a concrete high-rise on the outskirts of Manchester. The father, Thomas, had been laid off from the factory and now worked as a long-haul 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 familys pride. Serious beyond her years, shed gone straight from school to a local college to study accounting, eager to start earning and help her parents. Their entire lives revolved around one goalgetting her younger brother, Alfie, into university. Hed shown a knack for maths in primary school, and he was their family project, their only hope for moving up in the world.
After classes, Emily did bookkeeping for a small business owner. 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.
One day, her old school friendher one loyal readerconvinced her to enter a writing competition. To her shock, Emily won first prize: a small cash award and an internship at a newspaper in Birmingham.
She decided to tell her parents over dinner, while Alfie was shut in his room doing homework.
Mum, Dad, she began, pushing her plate of spaghetti aside. I got an offer. From the *Birmingham Courier*. A month-long internship. Its a real chance.
What *Courier*? Thomas frowned, rubbing his tired face. Youve got a steady job with Mr. Davies. Good pay, regular hours.
Its not about that. Ive been writing stories. And someone noticed.
Margaret stopped washing up. She turned, drying her hands on her apron.
Stories? Her voice was thick with disbelief. Emily, when dyou find the time? You need your sleepyouve got work! And Alfies struggling with algebra!
I know. But this is my shot! Emilys voice wavered. I could actually do what I love. At least let me try!
*Love?* Thomas stood, his shadow swallowing her. Whos gonna put food on the table, then? You think Im out there driving for fun? You think your mum scrubs floors for *love*? No! Its duty! And here you are, chasing dreams while Alfies futures on the line!
Its not just dreams! Emily shot up. Why does Alfie get to aim for Oxford, but I cant even
Because *hes* the one wholl provide! Thomas barked. Your jobs to marry well, not embarrass us! Writing fairy tales instead of finding a husband!
The words hit harder than any slap. Emily took a step back, staring at their exhausted, angry faces. They didnt see *her*just a helper, a prop for Alfies future. 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*and walked out. Just a rucksack with her laptop, a change of clothes, and printed stories.
The internship was unpaidthe papers way of scouting new writers. Churning out articles wasnt as thrilling as her own fiction, and the job was more grind than glamour. But Emily loved it: the buzz of the newsroom, meeting real people, seeing life from new angles.
Birmingham was expensive. 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 lived on toast and tea, running on fumes.
Then, one night, Margaret called. Her voice was rough.
Em Your dads in hospital. His heart. Collapsed at work. Hes been well, hes been worrying himself sick over you. A pause. You eating proper at least?
Emily glanced at her dinnera stale sandwich. Her chest ached with guilt.
Im fine, Mum, she lied. Hows Alfie?
Misses you rotten. Grades slipping, too.
Hell manage, Emily said. Send Dad my love.
But she didnt visit. 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 poured out of her at night. One got picked up by a youth lit mag. They paid peanuts, but seeing her name in print? She cried right there by the newsstand.
Six months later, the *Courier* hired her. She rented a tiny room in a dodgy shared house with a leaky ceilingand felt like the luckiest girl alive.
Then Alfie showed up. Taller, scowling.
Sis, he said, not stepping inside. Changed my mind about uni.
Emily froze.
But you
Culinary college. Wanna be a chef. His laugh was bitter. Mum and Dad lost it. Their golden boy, throwing it all away. He met her eyes. Know why? Cause I *hate* maths. Always wanted this. But till you left? Too scared to say.
He walked off. In that second, Emily realised her escape hadnt just saved *her*. It gave Alfie the guts to rebel too.
***
A year later, a letter came. Scrawled in pencil on lined paper.
*Lass. Mum says youre in the papers now. Saw your name in some mag at a motorway café. Told the ladsThats my girl. They called me a liar. Take care. 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 damp balcony. Rain fell. The roof leaked. Neighbours bickered. But as she watched the citys wet rooftops, she knewthis life, with all its struggles, was *hers*. No longer just a prop, a function. She was Emily. Writer. Author of her own story. And that was everything.
