When I Turned Fifteen, My Parents Decided They Definitely Needed Another Child.

When I turned fifteen, my mother and father declared, as if it were a law of the universe, that we simply required another child. So James was born, and the whole weight of his care and the housework fell upon me. Homework became an impossible luxury; the teachers marked me down and punished me for the poor grades. Then my father, with a voice like an echo in a cathedral, warned, Until your brother finishes school, dont even think of boys! I was forced to make a radical choice.

The village of Ashford, with its cobblestone lanes and fogkissed mornings, buzzed with congratulations. Everyone sent me wellwishes, yet I felt no urge to celebrate. I rarely revisit that memory, but I tell it now.

Mother, Margaret, smiled at the thought of having a daughter, not because she loved me, but because I became a freeofcharge babysitter. When James turned one, she stopped nursing him overnight and went to work fulltime at the factory on the outskirts of town. Grandmother arrived each dawn, and when I trudged home from school, she was either already asleep or gone again. James lay in my care, crying constantly, and I could not soothe him.

My own time vanished. I had to change his nappies, wash him, feed him, and prepare fresh meals every hour. When my parents came home at night and saw dishes piled in the sink or shirts still wrinkled, they scolded me as a lazy parasite. Only then could I finally sit down with my worksheets, having had no minutes before. School was a blur; out of pity the teachers handed me threepoint grades, and I earned even harsher reprimands.

The washing machine does the washing, the dishwasher does the rinsing, and what do you do all day? Dreaming of parties, I suppose! my father bellowed, while mother nodded, her eyes glazed as if shed forgotten how to spend a few hours with a restless child while the house stayed upright.

The washing machine may wash, but someone still has to start it, hang the clothes, and iron yesterdays shirts. The dishwasher was forbidden during daylight; its electricity was deemed too costly, so I washed the childrens plates by hand. No one envied my nightly floormopping, for James was a whirlwind, crawling and sprinting everywhere.

Things eased slightly when James entered the local nursery. My parents insisted that I pick him up and feed him when I returned home, granting me a few solitary afternoons. I pushed harder at school and finally passed without the dreaded threepoint marks.

I dreamed of studying biology at university. It was the only subject that sparked any fire in me, yet my parents dismissed the idea.

The universitys in the city centre, youll be commuting an hour and a half each way. When will you be back? James needs to be collected, then you have to look after him. Dont even think about it! they said.

Their resolve was iron, so the next step was chosen for me. The nearest college was a culinary institute in Leeds, where I learned to be a pastry chef. I can scarcely recall the first term; I was, as they say, crushed beneath the weight of expectations. But I threw myself into the kitchen, discovering a love for cakes, biscuits, and all manners of sweet confection.

In my second year I took a parttime job at a café on the high street near our flat. At first my parents complained that I was never at home, yet I defended that sliver of personal time. After I finished my courses, I was hired fulltime.

Soon a new head chef arrived at the café. We began meeting after closing, and my parents resumed their endless tirades, swearing and scolding. More than once my father showed up after my shift to barge me from a walk with my boyfriend, Tom. One evening they organized a family gathering.

Aunt Eleanor, her husband, and Grandmother arrived. They placed me in the centre of the room and commanded, Forget engagements, strolls, any kind of conversation.

You quit the café! Aunt Eleanor shouted. Ive secured you a kitchenhand position at Jamess school.

The best news of the day! my mother declared jubilantly. James will always be looked after, and you can go straight home in the afternoon. Youll have time to help us.

To abandon a job where I was valued, paid, and where Tom also worked? I imagined a bleak future: a school canteen serving greasy schnitzels and sticky noodle casseroles, evenings filled with endless chores, a life devoted entirely to James.

Until your brother finishes school, dont even dream of boys, my father warned sternly.

The next day I told Tom everything, and together we sketched a plan. He had long wanted to open his own café, saving whatever he could, though the sum never seemed enough. We considered a loan from the bank or finding investors. At home I told my parents I needed two more weeks of work; they agreed to wait out my notice period.

The loan never materialised, but a connection surfaced. A friend of Toms managed a grand restaurant in Brighton and offered a fresh project there. Tom travelled for an interview, convinced the proprietor to speak with me via video call. While I described myself, Tom sent a box of my pastries for the chef to taste, tucked safely in an insulated bag.

On my final day at the café I left early, slipped home while the house was empty, packed a bag with documents and savings, and boarded a train to Brighton.

Now I live my own life, dedicated to those I choose, not to those who once chained me. I love my brother, and I truly hope we can build a good relationship someday. I bear no hatred for my parents, yet I know that if I remained under their roof or even in the same town, I would forever be under their shadow. I was not strong enough to stand up then, so I fled. I pray that in our new city everything will fall into place and that we will find happiness.