I sat at my desk, pen poised over the paper, my heart hammering so loudly I thought it might echo through the walls. For hours I'd been staring at the blank page, trying to find the courage to put down what I'd been carrying inside me. It felt dangerous, almost like betrayal, to admit how trapped I felt at home, how suffocating it was to live beneath my father's rules, his plans, his voice in every corner of my life.
But more than that, it was the ache of being away from Emma. That was what tipped me over the edge.
I finally pressed my pen down.
Dear Aunt Stephanie, I began, fingers trembling slightly. I don't know if I'm being foolish, but I want to move out of my parents' house. I want to be near Emma, to have a life that isn't dictated by my father's plans or his rules. I don't know where to start, or if it's even possible for someone like me…
The words spilled slowly, cautiously. I told her about the little money I'd managed to save, how I was willing to work hard, to take any job that would keep me afloat. I admitted I didn't know what I was doing, that I needed advice, guidance, some kind of lifeline to take the first step without ruining my future.
When I finally signed my name, my hand ached. But for the first time in weeks, I felt lighter.
The next few days were torture. I worried constantly that Father would somehow find out about my letter to Aunt Stephanie, notice my sudden interest in the post, or that he'd intercept the letter before I saw it, tear it open himself and read every word. I caught myself glancing at him at breakfast, imagining the fury that would break over his face if he ever discovered what I'd written.
In my head, I replayed the scene a hundred times: Father's jaw tight, his voice rising, Mother wringing her hands in the background. "Nonsense," he would bark, "absolutely not. You'll do as I say. You're not throwing your life away for some girl."
I knew his words already, because I'd lived them. And every time that vision came to me, my stomach twisted tighter.
But there was something else too. Beneath the fear, beneath the dread, a resolve began to grow. For once in my life, I wanted to stand up to him. Not just for myself, but for Emma.
Especially for Emma.
Every night, when I closed my eyes, I saw her bruised face in my mind, the letter she hadn't written because she couldn't. I'd let her down before — by not being there, by not leaving sooner, by not breaking free the moment I'd finished my exams. If I'd done that, maybe she wouldn't have gone through what she did. The guilt of it pressed against me like a stone in my chest.
I couldn't undo the past. But I could decide what happened now.
A week later, a neatly folded envelope arrived. Relief flooded me as I tore it open in my room, hands shaking, and saw Aunt Stephanie's familiar handwriting.
Dear Tommy, it began. First, let me say how proud I am of you. The loyalty you show Emma, your courage, and your determination — these are rare qualities. You are already making me proud, just for being who you are.
I stopped reading, pressing the paper to my chest. Those words — proud of you — my parents had ever said them to me before. Not once.
I read on.
As for moving out, it's not impossible, but it needs careful planning. You need to find work close to Emma so you can afford the rent. Renting a room from a local family is a practical first step. Continue your studies for your A-levels — your education will be your most valuable asset. University may feel far off, but it will open doors that money or connections cannot.
She'd even offered me financial support to get started. This isn't charity, she wrote, it's an investment in your character and future.
By the time I finished the letter, my pulse was racing. She believed in me. She believed I could do this — live independently, stand on my own two feet, be the kind of person Emma deserved.
The following days blurred into a rush of planning. I scribbled lists in my notebook:
*Work. I couldn't rely on any savings, and I wouldn't lean too hard on Aunt Stephanie's help. A café job seemed perfect — steady, practical, and honest.
*A room. Maybe the B&B at first, then I'd look at houses that advertised for lodgers. Something small, safe, cheap.
*School. I'd fit studying in no matter what. If I wanted a real future with Emma, I couldn't throw it away.
Every line I wrote down steadied me. I wasn't just dreaming anymore — I was taking action, moving.
But the dread never fully went away. At some point, I'd have to tell Father. I'd have to stand in that sitting room, feel his eyes burning into me, and say it out loud: I'm leaving.
He would rage. I knew it. He would sneer at me, call it foolishness, maybe threaten to cut me off. He might even try to forbid it outright.
And I would have to look him in the eye and defy him.
It terrified me. My whole life, I had bent beneath his shadow, done what he wanted, spoken only when it pleased him, how it pleased him. But this time would be different. This time, I wasn't fighting for his approval, or a grade on an exam paper, or even for a scrap of praise. This time, I was fighting for Emma.
And if it came down to it, I was prepared to lose everything else.