**Diary Entry**
My name is Emily Whitaker, and I live in a tiny, forgotten town called Ashford, tucked away in the rolling hills of Yorkshire. Everything here feels small—the streets, the houses, the wages, but most of all, the dreams of the people. They hover in the air, never daring to rise above the grey rooftops. Once, I dreamed of more—of life in a big city, of a proper education, of being surrounded by people whose words could ignite something in me. But my parents, the ones who should have lifted me up, clipped my wings instead. Now, I’m just a shadow of the woman I might have been.
It all started after school. I was desperate to leave—to go to London or Manchester, to study at university, to lose myself in a world of knowledge and possibility. But Mum and Dad had other plans. Instead of encouraging me, they poured every last penny into buying land in the next village and building a massive house. Why? I still don’t know. I was an only child—there were just the three of us—and that house stood like a silent insult to my dreams: empty, cold, pointless. They said, *”It’s for your future,”* but all I saw was their fear of letting me step into the wider world.
So, I stayed in Ashford after graduation. Jobs here are scarce, so I took work as a shop assistant in the local grocery store. Like so many girls in towns like this, I married the first decent bloke I met—Daniel—and had two children. The years slipped by, and here I still am, behind the checkout, day after day, year after year. Every shift blurs into the last—the same faces, the same complaints, the same tired conversations. Sometimes, in rare quiet moments, I stare out the window and wonder: *Where would I be if they’d let me try?* Maybe in a bustling city, with a job that made me feel alive, breathing in every new experience. Maybe I’d visit galleries, sit in cosy cafés, surrounded by people who made me think in ways I never had before.
Daniel and I get on well enough—we rarely argue. He drives a delivery van, dropping off stock to shops. Evenings are always the same: dinner, then talk that goes in circles—about neighbours, the regulars who linger outside the shop all day, or some other mundanity. Then the telly goes on, and the day quietly fades. In summer, we escape to the seaside for two weeks—our one taste of freedom, our only break from the monotony. But even there, I feel life passing me by, leaving me stranded.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself more and more: *What’s the point?* I don’t find it in the endless shifts, in the grey sameness of it all. My soul aches with longing, but there’s no way out. The only thing that keeps me going is the children. I want something different for my son and daughter. I save every penny, pushing them to study, to aim higher. It’s hard—they’re young, uncertain, still figuring themselves out. But I refuse to let them repeat my mistakes. They won’t marry too young, won’t get stuck in this place where dreams wither before they’ve even had a chance to grow.
My parents still live in that enormous house. We barely speak now—just polite visits at Christmas, out of duty, nothing more. I don’t know if they realise what they stole from me. I’m not angry anymore—I forgave them long ago—but somewhere deep inside, it still hurts. They meant well, but they took away my right to choose. I deserved at least a chance, just one step toward the life I wanted. Instead, I’m just a shop girl, watching my days drift by like muddy water—directionless, without hope.
I’m writing this to let it out, to spill the pain I’ve carried for years. And to tell anyone young who might listen: *Your parents don’t always know what’s best for you.* Chase your dreams, fight for them tooth and nail, whatever it takes. I couldn’t, but you still can. Don’t let someone else’s choices chain you down like they did me. My life is a lesson—bitter and hard—and I hope, just maybe, someone out there will hear me from the shadows.
