The Whitaker family lived in a concrete council flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The father, Thomas, 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 familys pride. Mature beyond her years, shed studied accounting at a local college to start earning quickly and support her parents. Every sacrifice revolved around one goal: sending their youngest, Harry, to university. Hed shown a knack for maths in primary school, becoming the familys project, their only hope for upward mobility.
After classes, Emily helped at a small accounting firm. At night, when the flat fell quiet, shed open her secondhand laptop and write. Soft, melancholy stories about dreamers, lovers, and lost soulsher escape from exhaustion and grey skies.
One day, her childhood friendher sole loyal readerconvinced her to submit a story to a writing competition. To her shock, Emily won first prize: a small cash award and an internship at a regional newspaper.
She decided to tell her parents over dinner while Harry did homework in his room.
Mum, Dad, she began, pushing aside her plate of spaghetti. Ive been offered an internship. At the *Manchester Chronicle*. Its a real opportunity.
Thomas frowned, rubbing his tired face. Whats this about? Youve got a steady job with Mr. Thompson.
This is different. Ive been writing stories. Someone noticed.
Margaret turned from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. Stories? When did you find the time? You need sleep, Emily! And Harrys maths revision
I know. But this is my chance! Her voice wavered. To do something I love. Just to try!
Love? Thomas stood, his shadow looming over her. Wholl put food on the table, then? You think I drive lorries for fun? Your mother cleans offices for love? Noits duty! And here you are, chasing dreams while Harrys future hangs on us!
Its not just dreams! Emily shot up. Why does Harry get to aim for Oxford, but I cant take this?
Because hes the son! Thomas barked. Hell provide! Your job is to marry well, not humiliate us with scribbles!
The words stung like a slap. Emily stepped back, staring at their weary, bitter faces. To them, she wasnt a personjust a helper, a prop for Harry. Arguing was pointless.
Fine, she whispered.
The next morning, she left almost all her prize money on the table with a note: *For Harrys tutors*. Her rucksack held her laptop, spare clothes, and printed stories.
The internship paid nothingthe paper scouted talent this way. Writing articles was less thrilling than her fiction, more like an assembly line than creative freedom. But Emily loved it: the buzz, the people, seeing life from new angles.
Manchester was expensive. She rented a bunk in a hostel near work and waited tables nights. Days were interviews and edits; nights, greasy plates and exhaustion. She survived on tea and toast, her body running on fumes.
One night, Margaret called, voice ragged. Em Your dads in hospital. His heart. Hes been struggling since you left. Are you even eating?
Emily glanced at her stale sandwich. Guilt and pity twisted her chest.
Im fine, Mum, she lied. Hows Harry?
Hes falling behind. Misses you. I cant help with his homework
Hell manage, Emily said. Tell Dad Ill visit soon.
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 poured out of her at night. One got published in a literary magazine. The payment was pitiful, but seeing her name in print made her cry at the newsstand.
Six months later, the paper hired her. She rented a tiny room in a leaky shared flat and felt like the luckiest person alive.
Then Harry showed up, taller, scowling. Em, he said, lingering at the door. Im not going to uni.
She froze. What? But you
Culinary college. To be a chef. Mum and Dad are furious. Their golden boys failed them. His voice turned bitter. Know why? Ive always hated maths. Wanted to cook. But I was too scared to say it till you left.
He walked away. Emily realised then: her escape hadnt just saved her. It gave Harry the courage to rebel.
***
A year later, a letter arrived from Thomas. Pencil on lined paper, brief:
*Lass. Mum says youre in the papers now. Saw your name in a mag at the truck stop. Told the lads youre mine. They didnt believe me. Stay strong. Miss you. Dad.*
Emily read it a dozen times. It wasnt forgiveness. It was acknowledgmentthat she existed, that her voice mattered.
She stepped onto her damp balcony. Rain fell. The roof leaked; neighbours argued. But as she gazed at Manchesters wet rooftops, she knew this lifewith its exhaustion, guilt, and strugglewas *hers*. She wasnt just a prop anymore. She was Emily. A storyteller. The author of her own life. And that was worth every hardship.
