From Shadow to Light

From Shadows to Light.

Watching those daft soaps again, are you? Richard’s voice suddenly chimed in behind her, making Emily jump so badly she almost dropped her mug. Ive told you before, theyll rot your mind. Youd be better off tidying the kitchen or, heaven forbid, thinking about having a child. Is there really nothing else for you to do, is that why you mope about?

She didnt answer. She simply pressed the power button on the remote, the tvs glow disappearing. In the silence, she could suddenly hear the neighbours children laughing in the garden next door. The lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.

Im talking to you, Richard Johnstone continued, meticulously peeling off his jacket and hanging it neat as you like over the back of a chair. All his movements were precise, measured. Even his anger came out in a controlled, almost polite voice. If anything, that made it worse. Are you deaf or what?

I heard you, Emily replied quietly, getting up from the sofa. An old habit, hardwired since childhood with Aunt Margaret standing over her: never sit when an elder stands. Dont argue. Dont defend yourself.

Good. Is dinner ready?

Yes, its in the oven. Roast chicken and veg, just how you like.

Richard nodded and walked off to the kitchen. Emily remained standing in the middle of the large but always cold lounge, even with all the pricey renovations and brand new furniture. Her eyes drifted to the window: outside, a February evening was settling in, and the odd streetlamp cast pale cones of light over the snow-dusted back gardens of their edge-of-town neighbourhood. Twenty-eight, she thought. Half my life gone, and yet I feel like Ive not really lived at all.

***

Emilys parents died when she was seven. A car crash, slick roads, both of them gone in an instant. She remembered being a little kid, sat in the corridors of some hospital, with a woman she didnt know stroking her hair and muttering, Poor girl, poor little thing.

Then Aunt Margaret arrived. Her dads distant cousin or something, someone Emily had only seen once or twice at family christenings and Christmas dos. Late fifties, hair scraped into a severe bun, lips pursed so tight they might disappear. Aunt Margaret took charge straight away.

Ill see the girl sorted, she was telling the social worker, with Emily standing nearby, feeling more like a parcel being signed for than a child. I wont have her in care. Bloods thicker than water.

Aunt Margaret formally became her guardian, moving herself into Emilys parents modest two-bed flat. Shed only ever rented before, and now seemed quietly delighted by her new circumstances.

The least you can do is be grateful, shed say, only a day after moving in. Ive given up my own life for you. Couldve settled down myself, got married maybe, but here I am dragging you up on my own. Dont forget it.

Emily never did. Every hour. Every day. That sense of debt got into her bones, beneath her skin, filling her up until it all but drowned her. So she tried to be good. Easy to have around. Unnoticeable. Always got top marks, did all the chores, never asked for anything extra. Aunt Margaret didnt hit her or shout much. She just dripped guilt onto her, day in, day out, until it pooled in Emilys soul.

Another C in PE? You ungrateful girl. I do everything and this is my thanks?

Did you get the bread? White again? I told you wholemeal, are you even listening?

Was that your friend I saw round here? Sip tea and gossip, but cant be bothered to tidy your room you’re turning out spoilt.

By sixteen, Emily had forgotten what it was to be loved just for being herself. The memories of her mum and dadher mums hugs, her dads laughter, warmth and safetyfelt like odd old dreams, nearly imaginary. Everything good from the past had been swallowed up in Aunt Margarets endless criticisms.

After school, Emily got into a local teacher training college on a scholarship. Her aunt was only too pleased: a job meant she wont be a deadweight. After graduation, Emily got a job in a local nursery. The pay was laughable, but she handed over a chunk of her wages to Aunt Margaret for the household, and was given the privilege of continuing to live in the family flat.

Where would you go without me? Aunt Margaret said, after Emily, at twenty-three, once quietly mentioned maybe finding her own place. You wouldnt last a week. Besides, after everything Ive done for you, now you want to ditch me? Got no shame at all.

Emily didnt know whether she had any shame left or just a crippling excess of it. In the end, she stayed.

***

She met Richard Johnstone at a work friends birthday party. He was forty-seven; she was twenty-four. Tall, a bit imposing, with the confident air of someone whos always in control and wears a watch that costs a weeks wages to fix. Turned out he was a relative of the birthday girl and had popped in to give his best.

Youre very sweet, he said, smiling politely when they met by the snack table. Quiet, not like most these days. I rarely meet girls like you.

She blushed, stammered, unsure what to say. He smiled, asked for her number. To her own surprise, she gave it.

Richard called every day, took her to restaurants fancier than anything shed ever seen, bought her flowers. Told her she was different. That hed had enough of ambitious women in suits and wanted a proper woman who knew how to create a cosy home.

Youre like a rare flower, he said once, and something old and frozen inside her flickered awake. For the first time ever, it felt like someone wanted to care for her, not the other way around.

Aunt Margaret thoroughly approved.

At last, youve done something sensible, she sniffed, sizing Richard up when he called round. Good, solid sort of bloke. Youll be sorted. Cant live off nursery wages forever.

They married quietly, half a year after meeting. Richard insisted there was no point dragging it out. Emily moved into his big, newish three-bed flat. He was clear from day one:

You dont need to work. Ill take care of us. You look after me and the house and later youll give me a child.

She agreed. She thought this was what care looked like. At first, Richard truly did look after her he bought her clothes (though only those he chose you havent a clue about style hed say), gave her cash for housekeeping (no more than needed, and always expected the receipts back), and drove her here and there as he saw fit.

The first few months felt like walking through fog, trying to adjust to her new life. The flat was lovely, but cold. Smart kitchen gadgets, big TV, leather sofa but nothing of her own. Emily tried to add cosy touches: bright cushions, a potted plant on the windowsill. Richard grimaced.

What do you want that junk for? Weve gone for minimalism. Get rid.

So, she took them away.

Then the little criticisms started. At first, just casual, off-hand remarks.

You put far too much salt in soup.

That dress makes you look plump. Wear something else.

Forgotten to shut the toothpaste again? How many times do I have to say?

The comments came thicker and faster, day after day. Emily kept trying, but thered be something new every time.

Youre bloody-minded, arent you? Richard would say. I explain how to do things, and you still ignore me. Good thing you look decent, otherwise youd be absolutely hopeless.

She said nothing, swallowed back tears, feeling the familiar weight of guilt. Shed always felt guilty first because of Aunt Margaret, now because of Richard.

A year in, Richard began pressing her about not getting pregnant.

Seen a doctor yet? Is there something wrong with you?

Emily went to the surgery. Give it time, the GP said. Richard frowned, started implying she didnt really want children.

Selfish, thats your trouble. Always thinking of yourself.

But she wasnt thinking about herself. She almost never did. The days blurred together in a never-ending loop of cooking, cleaning, washing, and trying to please. Richard came in late from work, ate in silence or with an annoyed expression, watched the news, then went to bed. At weekends hed go out with work mates or off fishing. He never took her.

No point you coming. Just relax at home.

So, she stayed in. Watched the world go by through the window, watched other peoples children play in the street. Sometimes shed put on a TV show, but always switched it off before Richard came home. He hated her wasting time on rubbish.

***

Then, that summer just after she turned twenty-six she nipped out to the supermarket for groceries. Stood in the cereals aisle, double-checking the shopping list Richard had written (nothing ever extra), when she suddenly heard someone call out:

Em? Emily Brown? Is that really you?

She spun round. A tall, short-haired woman in jeans and a bright tee grinning at her. After a second, Emily clocked who it was: her old school friend, Hannah James. Theyd been inseparable till Year 9, when Hannahs parents moved away.

Hannah, hi! Emily managed, a bit dazed. What are you doing here?

Moved back a few weeks ago, Hannah was beaming. Mum and dad wanted to be closer to my gran again, I figured Id stick around with them all my works remote these days. And you? Got married? Kids?

Yeah, Im married, Emily nodded. No kids yet.

Hey, lets grab a coffee some time and catch up! Heres my number.

Hannah rattled off her number while Emily scribbled it down, feeling oddly nervous. They exchanged a few more words before Hannah dashed off, waving over her shoulder.

That evening, after Richard had gone to bed, Emily stared at the number on her phone. She wanted to call, but it terrified her. What would she say if Richard found out? He hated her making her own plans. But this was a friend. Or used to be. Maybe one coffee wouldnt hurt.

The next day, summoning all her courage, Emily messaged Hannah. The reply came back instantly, and they arranged to meet at a little café in the High Street while Richard was at work.

Got to pop to the doctors, Emily told him that morning, and he just nodded, not really listening.

***

Hannah was already there with her laptop. When Emily arrived, she jumped up and gave her a proper hug.

Its so good to see you! Sit down, I got you a coffee.

Most of the chatter came from Hannah stories about her life: studying IT at uni, becoming a freelance data analyst, carving out her own niche in web support. She talked with a kind of energy Emily found herself longing for. Not a bitter jealousy, but a gentle sort envy for the freedom.

So, what about you? Hannah finally asked.

Im at home. Richard doesnt want me working.

Really? But do you want to?

Emily hesitated. Did she? Shed never even asked herself.

Im not sure, she replied honestly.

Hannah looked at her, thoughtful.

Ill tell you what. I need a hand with some website photo editing stuff. Its really not hard, literally an hour or two a day, pays alright, and you can do it from home. If you want, Ill show you how, and you can take some of the jobs I cant keep up with. Want to try?

I dont know how, Emily said, suddenly feeling rather small.

Ill teach you, promise. Its dead simple once youve got the hang of it. The main thing is wanting to try.

And Emily realised for the first time in what felt like years she actually did want to try.

I havent got my own computer, she admitted.

Richards got a laptop though, hasnt he?

Yeah, he does.

There you go. Use it when hes out. Ill send you the software and a step-by-step. Just give it a go. If you dont like it, no harm done.

Emily wavered, then nodded. What she felt in her chest was a strange flicker of hope. Like she was standing right at the edge of something wide open and unknown.

***

The first time she borrowed Richards laptop, two days after meeting Hannah, her hands shook so badly she could barely type in the password. He wouldnt be home until seven; she had four hours. She installed the programs Hannah sent, working through the very first tutorials.

It was hard at first. Emily had never used Photoshop or anything like it, got muddled by the menus, baffled by the jargon. But she found herself drawn in, too. She watched YouTube tutorials, tried again, got things wrong and then right. Hours disappeared before she knew it.

She always made sure to close everything down before Richard got back, wiping her browser history (Hannah had shown her how), tidying the laptop away. Then shed cook dinner, lay the table, greeting him with the same old calm face. But now there was a small, secret something alive inside her, and it made things just a touch lighter.

Within a month, she could handle the basics. Hannah started sending her real jobs clearing backgrounds on product photos, tweaking colours, resizing images. They werent huge jobs, and the pay was barely worth mentioning in Richards eyes. But to Emily, this was the first money shed ever earned entirely by herself.

Hannah used to pay straight to Emilys account, a new one they opened together.

Ill give it to you as cash, actually its safest like that, Hannah said. Keep it hidden somewhere Richard wont look. Save up.

Save up for what? Emily asked.

For just in case. A rainy day.

Emily didnt really know why shed need it, but nodded, hiding the rolled notes in an old poetry book left from her parents, and with it, the only photo she still had of them.

Gradually, the jobs picked up. Emily learnt to do more simple collages, a bit of retouching. Hannah was generous with her praise, and it meant more to Emily than shed expected. She couldnt remember the last time shed been told she was good at something, with no but… on the end.

Richard noticed nothing. Hed come home, eat, watch the news, and go to bed. Every so often hed ask what shed done all day.

Cleaning, cooking, the usual, she always answered.

Thats good. A woman ought to mind her home.

Shed nod, keeping her gaze lowered, though her thoughts were already on the new job shed start the next morning.

***

A year went by. Emily was twenty-seven. Richard had started on about children more and more, getting tetchier.

Maybe you should see another GP, he said. Or just admit you dont want kids after all.

I do… she replied. Mostly true, once upon a time. But these days, the thought of raising a child in that flat, in that kind of life it filled her with cold dread.

So whats the issue? I provide for you, youve got everything you could want, and youre not even managing a baby. Useless.

That word useless landed right in her heart, leaving a bruise. This time though, she didnt cry. Just felt a dull, heavy ache and a rising exhaustion.

After those arguments, shed sneak off to Richards laptop, losing herself in work. When editing photos, she could tidy mistakes, create something pretty, see results. It helped.

The cash Hannah paid her built up quietly. She even started taking on freelance gigs online, with help from Hannah. Three, then four hours a day, as long as Richard was at the office. She grew confident, worked faster, got better feedback from clients. That praise felt alarmingly good.

One evening, after Richard went to bed early with a headache, Emily counted her cash savings. Over two grand now. A life-changing amount enough for a deposit on a rented room and maybe a few months bills until she found a real job.

The thought of leaving Richard snuck up on her. It scared her where would she go? Whod want her? Richard looked after her. Sure, he was harsh, but arent all husbands a bit like that? And wasnt it her fault for always getting things wrong?

But the idea wouldnt leave her now. It grew louder every day.

***

Then came the breaking point that winter. Richard came home early one day; she hadnt time to close the laptop. He walked into the lounge and saw her working.

What are you doing? His voice was cold.

I I was just She shot up, slamming the laptop shut, heart pounding madly.

Going through my things, were you? Did I say you could use my laptop?

No, but I just

Exactly. You didnt even ask. Do you think youre entitled to everything here is that it?

Sorry. I wont touch it again.

What were you doing anyway? He flipped open the lid, checking recent history. Shed remembered to close her work programs, but a couple of freelance site tabs had been left open.

He looked from the screen to her.

Youre working? Secretly? Behind my back?

I just thought to help out earn a bit extra.

Help me? he snorted. You think I need your help? That I cant provide?

No, I just

Enough, he said in that flat, unruffled tone. Youve ruined things again. I trusted you, gave you everything, and you go sneaking round, playing at work instead of having a child like you should.

He slammed the laptop shut and tucked it under his arm.

Youll not touch this again. From now on youll tell me exactly where you go and what you do, every hour. Seems to me youve had too much freedom.

He disappeared into the bedroom with the computer. Emily stood frozen in the hallway, like a fox cornered in its own den. At last the tears came. She sank to the floor, knees hugged to her chest, sobbing till she almost retched.

That night she lay awake, listening to Richards snores, thinking over and over: I cant live like this. Im suffocating. This isnt living, its surviving. Those phrases shed heard on TV about coercive control, psychological abuse suddenly felt terrifyingly accurate. They were talking about her.

The next morning, after Richard left for work (with the laptop), Emily rang Hannah.

I need your help, she whispered.

***

They met again at the same café. Emily poured everything out: the row, the threats, Richards new rules. Hannah just listened, then reached out and squeezed her hand tightly.

You have to go, Em. Seriously. Hes breaking you.

But where would I go? Ive got nowhere.

You do, actually. Youve got your rainy-day money, youve got your own skills now, and youve got me. Youre not alone. But you have to leave. And soon.

What if hes right? Maybe I really am the problem.

That voice in your head, said Hannah thats his, not yours. Hes made you feel like youre useless and always wrong, but none of its true. Youre smart and capable you learnt a new job in a year and deliver actual results. Does that sound useless to you?

Emily just shook her head; Hannahs words felt like oxygen to someone drowning.

Im scared, she whispered.

I know. But staying’s scarier, trust me.

They spent the next hour sketching out a plan. Hannah offered up her tiny spare room for a start, helped Emily scroll through rental listings, explained how to get her savings out of the flat without tipping Richard off.

You should talk to a counsellor as well, love, said Hannah. Once youre out. This stuff is deep.

Emily nodded. The thought of a shrink used to seem for the bonkers, but now she understood it wasnt the crazy ones that needed help it was the wounded.

***

A week later, she left. Richard headed off for a work trip. Emily packed only the things she needed: clothes, documents, parents photo, the old poetry book stashed with cash. She left everything else. She didnt want anything that came from that flat.

She scribbled a note: Im leaving. Please dont look for me. Sorry.

Her hands shook as she locked the door for the final time, barely able to fit the key in the lock. She rode the lift down, heard the snow crunching underfoot. It was another cold February day, sky low and grey. Emily stopped and made herself take the deepest breath she could manage. The air stung, but for the first time in what seemed like years, her chest felt light. It was like a heavy, invisible stone had been taken off her back.

Hannah met her at the door, helping haul her bags up to the flat. Hannahs place was tiny, just one room with a fold-out sofa but to Emily, it felt like a palace. Hannah settled her in, made a mug of strong tea.

How are you? she asked.

Im not sure, Emily answered honestly. Scared but it feels right.

The first days were rough. Richard called, texted, left angry voicemails: Ungrateful, I gave you everything, Youll regret it. Then the tone changed Ill change, please come home, I was wrong. Emily didnt answer but every message was like a punch. Even so, Hannah blocked his number, changed her SIM. The messages stopped.

After two weeks, Emily rented a box room from an old lady, barely ten feet wide, with a narrow window, but it was hers. For the first time in her life, she had a space nothing and no one could take away.

Hannah got her a cheap second-hand laptop.

Work, earn a bit. Youve got this.

Emily started working for real, no more hiding, a few hours every day. It was enough to keep her room, the fridge filled, and to put a tenner aside each week. She learnt to do the ordinary things again: choosing her own food, cooking for herself, watching a rubbish film without guilt. But inside, she felt an aching emptiness and a tight knot of shame.

***

Aunt Margaret found out when Richard got in touch apparently trying to rope her in to help track Emily down.

What have you done, you silly girl? she shrieked down the line. Walked out on a good man like that? He provided for you and you treat him like dirt! I raised you, and this is how you repay me with disgrace!

Emily listened, feeling the same old weight pressing down. Aunt Margarets voice reached straight through the phone, like the chain of an anchor dragging her back.

Im not coming back, Emily said quietly, but firmly. Not to him, and not to you either.

How dare you! I did everything for you!

You took the flat, Emily found herself saying, surprise in her own voice and reminded me daily of what I owed you. But I dont owe you anything. I never did.

She ended the call, hands shaking, tears hot in her eyes but mixed with something else, something like relief. At last, shed said out loud what shed bottled up for her whole life.

Aunt Margaret never called again.

***

At Hannahs urging, Emily booked her first session with a counsellor.

You cant carry all this around, Hannah said. Itll poison every relationship if you do.

Emily dreaded it what if the counsellor just blamed her, told her she shouldve left sooner? But Hannah found someone gentle, a woman in her late forties called Helen, and Emily reluctantly went.

The first meeting felt weird. Helens office was calm, full of plants and the smell of peppermint tea. Emily sat awkwardly, not sure where to begin. Helen didnt rush her.

I honestly dont know what Im doing here, Emily said at last. I just left my husband. And my aunt. Im on my own now. I should be fine.

How do you feel? Helen prompted softly.

Not sure. Guilty, mainly. Like whatever I do, its wrong.

Guilty about what?

Everything, Emily said, and for the first time, tears pricked her eyes again. Ive always felt that way.

And suddenly, everything poured out childhood, Aunt Margaret, always being reminded she was a burden; Richard, his control, the constant useless, stupid, ungrateful. Trying so hard to please, and never getting it right.

Helen listened and listened, not interrupting. Eventually, when Emily fell silent, eyes sore from crying, Helen said quietly:

What youve been through is called emotional abuse. First from your aunt, then from your husband. You were taught to feel useless and dependent. But its not the truth. Thats just what they made you believe.

Emily looked up, wondering if shed heard right.

But I did mess up a lot…

Everyone does things differently. There isnt just one right way to live. But you were made to believe otherwise so others could have control.

That turned a key somewhere inside Emily. She left dazed, shaken but, for the first time, she could sense daylight in the dark.

She went weekly after that. Every time Helen helped her unpick some new knot: fear, shame, guilt. It was hard to admit that people she thought had loved her had, really, just used her. She had to face the fact that for most of her life, shed been living to suit other people.

Helen made her practice saying no. Simple in theory, impossible in real life. Emily was always used to saying yes, nodding along, making herself small. Now, she had to find her own boundaries.

Try saying no to something small, Helen said. Like, if your landlady asks you to babysit her grandson but you dont actually want to. Just say: Sorry, I cant today.

Days later, it happened. Her landlady knocked, asking if Emily could mind the grandson for an afternoon while she saw the GP.

Old Emily wouldve said yes instantly. This time, she forced out:

Sorry, Ive got work to do. I cant today.

The old lady looked surprised, but just shrugged and found someone else. And Emily stood alone in her room a while, feeling a strange new mixture still guilt, but relief and pride too.

***

Time passed. Emily turned twenty-eight. She took on more skilled work, higher-paid jobs. She could afford a tiny studio flat now, and decorated just how she liked vivid cushions, fresh tulips, art on the walls. All the touches Richard used to sneer at.

She still saw Hannah, for coffees and support, and every time she did she felt lucky their paths had crossed again. She seldom thought about Richard, except for the odd moment of morbid curiosity before blanking it away. The past belonged in the past.

She didnt bother with Aunt Margaret either. That old two-bed, technically still in Emilys name, was now Aunt Margarets to live in. Helen once asked:

Have you ever thought about taking back the flat?

Emily considered.

I could, I suppose. Itd be fair. But honestly? Id rather let her keep it. Like settling an imaginary debt that wasnt really mine.

Then youre moving on, Helen said.

Yeah, Emily agreed. I think I am.

***

Emily was finally living. She went to the cinema, strolled round parks, met fellow freelancers for the odd drink. She learnt to enjoy little things a strong flat white, a good book, a rainstorm outside. All tiny joys that had been off-limits in her old life.

Her sessions with Helen continued. The healing was slow, and some days she wanted to crawl back to her old comfort zone of apology and numbness. Other days, she felt unbreakable.

What she realised over time was that financial independence wasn’t about money alone. It meant being able to make choices. To say no. To build a life that was hers alone.

***

One day in spring, Emily wandered past an art shop and spotted a set of watercolour paints bright tubes in a wooden box. As a child shed loved painting, but Aunt Margaret had scolded her for making a mess and wasting time.

Emily went in and splurged without guilt: paints, brushes, a block of paper. Yes, it was indulgent, but she had money of her own now. Once home, she spread everything out on the table. For a long time, she just stared at the colours, at a loss. Then she dipped the brush in yellow and painted a big circle. The sun.

She gazed at it, feeling something inside begin to thaw. Whether it was good or not, didnt matter. Whether anyone would approve, didnt matter. Shed painted for herself. For the first time, that felt enough.

***

A year later, she was back in Helens small office, cradling a mug of herbal tea.

Guess what I did yesterday? Emily said, watching spring leaves wave beyond the window. I bought myself an expensive box of paints. Watercolours. Just because.

And how did that feel? Helen asked quietly.

Scary, honestly. Like I was wasting money. But then I just sat and painted a yellow sun. Thats all. Didnt even care if it was good or not.

Thats a big step, Helen nodded. Towards yourself.

Emily smiled. There was still a lingering ache from the past, but something else was peering through, something finally her own.

Ive let Aunt Margaret keep the flat, she said. Its my freedom now, you know? A way of paying off a debt that never really existed.

And how does that make you feel? Helen queried as usual, and the conversation carried on, gently unwinding the old story, making room for the new.