**Her Own Life**
Eliza couldn’t wait to finish school and move out. She lived with her parents in Manchester, but the urge to leave wasn’t because home was bad—quite the opposite. It was the *smothering* love and attention. She adored her mum and dad—was even proud of them. Half her classmates only had mums, and those who had dads barely saw them.
Nursery. Primary school. Little Eliza happily held her parents’ hands, beaming like the luckiest girl alive.
*»Mum, Dad, you’re the best parents in the world!»* she’d say, and they’d glow with pride.
They were *always* there. Walking her to school, waiting till she stepped inside. She’d turn at the door and wave.
*»Make sure you get top marks, love!»* Dad would call after her, and she’d promise.
But as the years passed, that same devotion started to feel suffocating. By secondary school, Eliza was done.
*»I’m not staying home after school. They’ll smother me. Fine when I was little, but now? Unbearable.»*
Her parents shielded her from *everything*. At home, the best slice of cake, the last biscuit—always hers. Not that she cared—she’d happily eat any biscuit!
Things got worse in Year 9. Back in Year 7, she’d rebelled:
*»Mum, stop walking me to school! I’m not a child. It’s embarrassing—none of my mates get escorted!»*
By Year 11, she’d linger after class, sitting in the park with her friends, chatting about nothing important. Her parents stopped meeting her, though Mum sighed to Dad:
*»Well, our girl’s grown up…»*
*»Aye, time flies,»* he agreed.
Eliza cheered. *»Freedom! Now I’m in charge of my time!»*
But her celebration was premature.
*»Eliza, why were you late? School ended ages ago!»* Mum fretted the second she walked in.
*»We were just at the park, eating ice cream. Is that a crime? Talking about uni plans, that’s all.»*
(She *definitely* didn’t mention the chats about boys—who fancied whom. That stayed between friends.)
Mum and Dad weren’t having it.
*»Love,»* Mum said firmly, *»you should share your thoughts with* us, *not just your mates. Who’s closer than family?»*
*»She’s right,»* Dad chimed in. *»You’ve been upsetting us lately. We worry—surely you understand?»*
As graduation neared, Eliza’s resolve hardened—especially after the school dance incident. She came home at 10 PM instead of 9. Mum was sprawled on the sofa, a cold flannel on her forehead. Dad loomed over her, clutching heartburn tablets. They stared like she’d committed treason.
*That* sealed it. She *had* to leave. Not because she didn’t love them—but to spare them (and herself) the constant interrogation.
At dinner, she dropped the bomb.
*»Mum, Dad… I’m moving to London for uni and work.»*
Mum nearly fainted. *»Alone? In* London? *Anything could happen!»*
*»It doesn’t happen to others. Why me?»*
*»Here, we can help! There, you’ll be—»*
Dad cut in. *»Where will you live? Some dingy flat? Here, everything’s taken care of. I can’t—»*
*»It’s a* nice *student hall, right in the city. And after uni, I’ll get a proper job,»* she said firmly.
They resisted, but in the end, they relented.
Reality hit fast. Student life wasn’t the glamorous dream she’d painted. Stretching her loan was a nightmare—even with their occasional top-ups.
Visits home meant being fussed over. Dad even *drove down with groceries*. But she gritted her teeth. Graduation came. She landed an office job, rented a flat nearby. Exhausting? Yes. But it was *hers*.
*»My future’s in* my *hands now,»* she thought.
At 25, a new goal: *Buy a flat.* No way she’d move back. No rich grandparents to inherit from—just a bank loan. Her parents offered some savings, though they still hoped she’d return.
Dream achieved: a two-bed in Zone 2. But money was tighter than ever. Bonuses shrank. She *refused* to ask for help.
*»Well, I chose this,»* she’d mutter, skipping lunches.
One evening, she bumped into uni mate Chloe.
*»Eliza! Let’s grab a coffee—catch up!»*
Eliza hesitated (who could afford Pret?) but Chloe waved her off. *»My treat—just got paid!»*
Watching Eliza demolish a panini, Chloe frowned. *»Blimey, when did you last eat?»*
*»Bought a flat. Loan’s killing me.»*
*»Two beds? Rent one out! My brother’s looking—decent bloke, pays on time.»*
*»A* stranger? *No way!»*
*»He’s harmless! Works in IT. Here’s what he’ll pay…»*
The number made Eliza gasp. *»…Fine.»*
Oliver moved in. Quiet, kept to himself. One day, she made a huge bolognese.
*»Fancy some? Too much for me.»*
*»Seriously? Cheers!»*
He wolfed it down, even fetched biscuits for afters. They chatted. Soon, they split groceries, shared stories. Nothing romantic—just easy company.
Then, one day: *»Eliza… I’ve got to go home for a bit. Two weeks max.»*
*»Right. Sure.»*
That night, the flat felt *empty*.
*»Huh. Miss his daft jokes.»*
A week in, she lost her appetite. Made a roast chicken—her favourite—but just stared out the window. Autumn leaves fell. So did her mood.
Then—*the door opened.*
She bolted to the hall. Oliver stood there, grinning, arms full of shopping bags.
*»Missed you, Ellie. Couldn’t stay away.»*
Her heart leapt.
*»Mum packed enough food to feed an army. Help me unpack?»*
She didn’t let go. Neither did he.
The chicken vanished. So did Mum’s steak pies.
A year later, their daughter arrived. Now Oliver *sprints* home from work—to his two favourite girls. Couldn’t imagine life without them.