Between Dreams and Expectations: My Life in the Glow of Screens

“You’ve wasted your money again, Lena! When will you ever learn?” Mum’s voice ricocheted off the kitchen tiles, sharp as the edge of a broken mug. I stood there, clutching the receipt from Currys, my hands trembling. The box with my new laptop sat unopened on the table, its glossy promise already tainted by disappointment.

I wanted to shout back, to tell her how many shifts I’d picked up at the call centre, how many nights I’d spent eating beans on toast just to save for this. But the words stuck in my throat. Dad was silent, his eyes fixed on the telly, pretending not to hear. My brother Jamie snorted from the hallway, “You’re always buying stuff you don’t need. No wonder you’re skint.”

I felt small, like I was shrinking into the lino. “It’s not just stuff,” I whispered, but no one listened. They never did.

I grew up in a two-bed terrace in Levenshulme, Manchester. Dad worked at the post office until his back gave out. Mum cleaned houses for people who never learned her name. Jamie left school at sixteen and now did odd jobs for cash. We weren’t poor, but every penny mattered. I learned early that dreams were luxuries, not rights.

But I had dreams anyway. At night, I’d scroll through tech blogs on my battered old phone, imagining a life where I could work from home, maybe even start a YouTube channel about gadgets. It sounded daft, but it was mine.

So I saved. Every birthday tenner from Gran went into a jar. Every overtime shift meant another step closer. For three years, I watched my friends buy new trainers or go out for drinks while I stayed home, counting coins.

When I finally had enough, I walked into Currys with my head high. The assistant smiled at me like I belonged there. I chose a laptop that could handle video editing and a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. For once, I felt proud.

That pride lasted until Mum saw the receipt.

“You could’ve helped with the bills,” she said later that night, her voice softer but still heavy with accusation. “We’re all struggling.”

I stared at my hands. “I know. But this is important to me.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “You’re not like us, Lena.”

I didn’t know what that meant. Was it an insult or a compliment?

Jamie was worse. He told everyone at the pub about my ‘fancy gadgets’, making me sound like some spoiled influencer wannabe. He laughed when he said it, but his eyes were cold.

The next day at work, I tried to focus on customer complaints about broadband speeds, but my mind kept drifting. Was I selfish? Was it wrong to want more than just getting by?

After my shift, I sat in Platt Fields Park with my unopened laptop beside me. The city buzzed around me—students on bikes, mums with prams, old men feeding pigeons. I watched them and wondered if any of them felt as lost as I did.

My friend Priya called. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

“Are you happy?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

She was silent for a moment. “You deserve to be.”

I wanted to believe her.

That weekend, Mum asked me to help clean Mrs Patel’s house with her. As we scrubbed the kitchen floor, she said, “When I was your age in Birmingham, all I wanted was a sewing machine. Saved for months. My mum called it a waste.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Did you get it?”

She nodded. “Used it for years before it broke.” She smiled sadly. “Sometimes people don’t understand what matters to you.”

I thought about that all day.

But things didn’t get easier at home. Jamie started using my headphones without asking, then left them on the sofa where they got scratched. Dad muttered about ‘kids these days’ and ‘easy money’ whenever he saw me editing videos on my laptop.

One night, after another argument about electricity bills and ‘wasting time online’, I snapped.

“Why is it so wrong to want something for myself?” I shouted.

Mum looked hurt. Jamie rolled his eyes. Dad just left the room.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

But slowly, things changed. My YouTube channel started getting views—nothing big, but enough to make me feel seen. Priya helped me film reviews in her flat when she could. Strangers left comments saying they liked my honesty.

One afternoon, Jamie came home early and found me filming an unboxing video.

He watched for a minute, then said gruffly, “You’re actually good at that.”

I blinked in surprise. “Thanks.”

He shrugged and left, but he didn’t mock me again.

Mum started asking questions about my videos—how many people watched them, if I made any money yet (not really). She still worried about bills but sometimes she smiled when she saw me editing late at night.

Dad never said much, but one morning he left a cup of tea by my laptop before heading out to his allotment.

It wasn’t perfect—money was still tight and arguments still happened—but something had shifted.

Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing—if chasing my own dreams makes me selfish or brave or just foolish.

But when I see someone comment that my video helped them choose their first laptop or made them feel less alone in their own family struggles… maybe that’s enough.

Do we have to choose between our dreams and our family’s expectations? Or is there a way to honour both without losing ourselves along the way?