**Her Own Life**
All Emily wanted was to finish school and move out. She lived with her parents in a lovely home in Manchester, but that was precisely the problem—too much love, too much fussing. It wasn’t that her parents were awful—quite the opposite. They adored her, and she adored them back. Most of her classmates came from single-parent homes, and even the ones with dads rarely got the kind of devotion Emily did.
Nursery. Primary school. Little Emily would skip down the pavement, hand in hand with Mum and Dad, convinced she was the luckiest girl in the world.
“You’re the best parents ever,” she’d chirp, and they’d beam with pride.
They were always there—walking her to school, waiting until she stepped inside, waving as she turned back at the door.
“Bring home top marks, love,” Dad would call, and she’d promise she would.
But as the years rolled on, all that doting turned stifling. By secondary school, Emily was thoroughly fed up.
“I’m not staying here after A-levels,” she’d mutter to herself. “They’ll smother me with affection if I do. Fine when I was little, but now? Unbearable.”
Her parents shielded her from everything. At home, she got the crispiest roast potato, the last biscuit, the biggest slice of cake—never mind that she didn’t care which one she got. The worst was Year 9. By then, she’d already rebelled once in Year 7.
“Mum, stop walking me to school. I’m not a child. Everyone else gets there on their own—it’s embarrassing!”
By Year 11, she’d linger after school, sitting in the park with her mates, giggling about nonsense. No more parental escorts. Just a quiet remark from her mother one evening:
“Our girl’s all grown up.”
Dad nodded. “Time flies.”
Emily cheered inwardly. *Finally, they get it. I’m my own person now!*
Too soon, that hope shattered.
“Emily, why are you late? School finished ages ago!”
“Mum, Dad, we were just having ice cream in the park. Is that a crime? Chatting about uni plans, that’s all.”
(She left out the bit about boys—that was strictly girl talk.)
Her parents frowned. “Love, you should be sharing these things with *us*,” Mum said. “Who knows you better than we do?”
Dad chimed in, “You’ve been upsetting us lately. We worry—surely you understand?”
By the time A-levels loomed, Emily was *definitely* leaving. The final straw? Coming home at 10 PM after a school dance to find Mum sprawled on the sofa with a cold flannel on her forehead while Dad hovered with smelling salts. Their accusing stares said it all.
At dinner the next night, she dropped the bomb.
“Mum, Dad—I’m moving out. Studying and working in London.”
Mum nearly fainted. “Alone? In *London*? Anything could happen!”
“Nothing happens to everyone else. Why would it happen to me?”
Dad panicked. “Where will you live? Some dingy halls? Here, everything’s taken care of—out there, it’s different!”
“Don’t worry,” Emily said firmly. “I’ve checked. The halls are brilliant, right in the city centre. And after uni, I’ll land a proper job.”
They resisted, but eventually relented.
Of course, halls weren’t quite the dream she’d painted. Living on a student loan (plus the occasional parental top-up) meant counting every penny. Visits home involved Mum stuffing her bag with tinned beans and Dad turning up unannounced with groceries. Still, she powered through, graduated, and landed an office job with a decent salary.
“*My* choices, *my* life,” she thought proudly.
By 25, she’d had enough of renting.
“A mortgage. That’s the answer.”
Her parents helped with the deposit, though they’d hoped she’d come home. Soon, Emily had her own flat—a cosy two-bed in Camden. But money was tighter than ever. Budgets. Sacrifices. No treats.
“*This* is independence,” she’d sigh.
Then, one evening, she bumped into Sophie, an old uni mate.
“Emily! Fancy a coffee? My treat—just got paid!”
Emily devoured a slice of pizza like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Sophie gaped.
“Blimey, when was your last proper meal?”
Emily shrugged. “Bought a flat. Mortgage. No spare cash.”
Sophie grinned. “Rent out the spare room! My brother James is looking—decent bloke, quiet, pays on time.”
Emily hesitated. “A stranger? No way.”
“*James* isn’t a stranger. Works in IT, just split with his girlfriend. Won’t bother you.”
The rent he offered made Emily cave.
James moved in. Quiet. Kept to himself. Then one night, Emily made a giant shepherd’s pie.
“Fancy some? Too much for me.”
James lit up. “Seriously? Cheers!”
He wolfed it down, then produced a pack of digestives for tea. They chatted. Laughed. A proper friendship bloomed—nothing more, but it was nice.
Until James went home for two weeks.
Emily hadn’t expected to miss him. But she did. A lot. She picked at a roasted chicken (her favourite), staring out at the autumn leaves, feeling hollow.
Then—the door clicked open.
James stood there, grinning, arms full of grocery bags.
“Missed you, Em. Couldn’t stand two weeks.”
Her heart leapt.
“Mum sent enough food to feed an army,” he said, pulling her into a hug.
The chicken vanished. So did the scones James’s mum had baked. They were happy.
A year later, their daughter arrived. Now, James races home from work every day—to his two favourite girls.
