I grabbed my bags of treats—think what you will of me!

As the eldest sister in a rather sprawling English family, I was chief cook and bottle washer from the get-go. Feeding everyone, bundling them off to playgroup and schoolI was the familys unpaid au pair, really. My parents didnt so much as ask my opinion on the matter; it was simply what was done.

Free time was something I only heard about in fairy tales. My social life was, shall we say, non-existent. While other girls were off cycling in the park or nattering in the chippy, I was elbow-deep in nappies. My schoolmates loved to make jabstittering that Id single-handedly mastered the art of bum-wiping and now that was my one claim to fame. Id go home feeling mortified, sometimes crying into my pillow. Dads contribution was to whack me with his belt, claiming he was, and I quote, knocking some sense into me.

If youre wondering, I didnt get much of a childhood myself. After my GCSEs, I was shipped off to the local college. My parents made the decision, naturally. Youll be a chef, love. That way, the lot of us will eat properly. My opinion was not in the room.

A few years later, armed with my new catering qualification, I landed a gig at a humble little café. Dad thought it was the ticket to a never-ending supply of take-home treats. When he ordered me to sneak food out the back door and I refused, Mum declared me selfish as they come and blamed me for everyone going to bed on empty stomachs. They even pocketed my first wages. When my second pay slip came in, I legged itcaught the first train out of town with all the drama of a classic escape scene. I didnt care where I landed, so long as it was well away from that madhouse. I figured if I stayed, Id end up utterly miserable.

Of course, it was tough goingcertainly not all sunshine and roses. But compared to doling out my soul for Mum and Dad, it was manageable. Steadfast, I worked every odd job going: mopping, bundling rubbish, then finally got promoted to washer-up. Eventually, with enough patience, I made it into the kitchen.

By then my wages had improved and I squirrelled away every last penny into an old biscuit tin. My big ambition: to get my own place where I could rule the roost without anyone barking orders. For a good stretch, I lived with my aging Gran. She charged me a pittance for rent, and I helped her about the house. Bless her, she was more a proper family to me than anyone. Nothing beat coming home to her ginger tea and warm scones. For those moments, I was probably the luckiest person alive.

Not too long after, I met the fellow whod become my husband. There was no fancy dojust a couple of signatures at the registry office, then off to his parents house I moved. Soon enough, a daughter arrived, and shortly after, a son.

Strange as it sounds, I started dreaming about my folks back home. After a long heart-to-heart, my husband and I decided to pay them a visit. I arrived, loaded with bags of gifts and a double helping of optimism.

Fat lot of good that did me. The reception was about as welcoming as a cold English drizzlename-calling, the lot. My brothers were glued to their cans; my sister, bless her, was an absolute mess. My parents barely noticed my family. The grandchildren? They may as well have worn invisibility cloaks. After slamming the door, they didnt look back.

Perhaps youll call me spiteful, but I simply picked up my bags and leftgifts untouched. I swore I wouldnt even turn up for their funerals. And honestly, I havent lost a wink of sleep over it.