Mae's stubby little legs might not strike you at first glance, but they'll certainly impress you once she starts running about with the energy of a thousand horses. I could never tire of watching her sprint in circles; when she does, she's like an ocean of joy that engulfs you whole. Her laughs and giggles could cure the world of any plight or tragedy—that is how her happiness sounds to me, at least.

It's a shame I can't run and chase her around anymore; my legs don't work the way they used to. It's only natural—I am one hundred and four years old, after all. My mind is sharp as a tack, but my body deteriorates with each passing day. Sometimes, it's excruciating, but I've learned to cope with it as best I can. Keeping busy with things, big or small, helps me find purpose and reason to go on.

Mae is my darling great-grandchild. She comes to visit me every now and then with her older cousin, Jane. I love them to pieces. Currently, the younger one is playing in the dirt—she does this when she's exhausted herself running. Whenever she rummages through the ground and finds an earthworm, she'll hurry on over to me and lay it tenderly in my hands as an offering, like a proud cat presenting her caught mouse. I don't have the heart to tell her off, so instead I say, "Mae-Mae, these things get sad when you pull them out of the ground, because they need to hear the song of the Earth to go on living. Will you return it to where you found it, dear?" She always nods, dutifully taking the earthworm, with great care, out of my outstretched hand, and placing it back where it rightfully belongs.

Sometimes, she'll ask, "Tata, why does your skin fold like that?" She might prod my wrinkles, or lift up the skin hanging off my cheekbone. I might tell her, "I didn't listen to my mummy when she told me to wear sunscreen. So I woke up one day and was like this ever since." Of course, this is a little white lie. Sunscreen didn't exist in the twenties the way it does today.

While Mae is full of energy, her cousin, Jane, is quite different. She is about eight years older, making her fourteen. Jane used to be a lot like Mae, curious and running amok with such fiery energy that you'd think she could conquer the world any day. In recent years though, I feel her spirit has diminished. I rarely see Jane take her eyes off her phone, so we don't have many opportunities to have conversations anymore. It's quite peculiar; she used to be much more curious about the world, especially the way it was in my day. Much time has passed since she has asked me any question of the sort.

Jane seems happiest when talking about acquiring new things, be it clothes, makeup, or jewellery. I don't really understand it myself, since when I was her age, I didn't have much interest in those types of gifts. Of course, I thanked my parents for such things when I received them, but they felt accessory, as if they wished to turn me into one of those glossy-eyed porcelain dolls that frightened me each time we passed by toy shop windows. I was far more jealous of my brothers' yo-yos and train sets, which seemed truly fun to play with, rather than a bow to tie in my hair, or a pair of new shoes to wear on special occasions.

I remember our house in the countryside. Our family was financially comfortable, so we had a fairly large estate. I would watch my two elder brothers run and play about in our field, with sticks for swords and leaves for treasure maps, while I had to look after my younger brother, Louie. It was my job to feed him, change his diapers, and cosset him in any way possible. I loathed the duty imparted upon me, wanting nothing more than to run free with my brothers, playing about in the fields, walking barefoot in the fresh mud. I wished to feel the kiss of the sun on my skin, climb up the luscious apple tree that stood tall and proud in the corner of our garden, and race my brothers out to the pond in the woods and push them in if they lost. Instead, I had to listen to Louie's whines and tantrums, soothe his hunger and tend to his hygiene, no matter the odour that emanated from the whining nuisance. Louie felt like a set of chains around my ankles. It wasn't his fault; he was just a baby, and I was a girl in a time where the very nature of our being was built on a set of false, misplaced ideas.

Once, I had said, "Please mother, I want to go run in the field like my brothers." She laughed and told me, "What do you mean, you 'want to run'? Girls can't run."

I couldn't understand what she meant at all. It was nonsensical! I replied, "What do you mean? I have legs—what more can you need to run? Here, look—"

I placed Louie in her arms, walked out the kitchen door, and ran. I sprinted with wild fury, each step reverberating through the soil like a panther on the run. My lungs were filled to the brim with overwhelmingly crisp air, the ground soft and pleasant beneath my feet. Such freedom I had never felt before—it was liberating. I felt like I could go on and on, forever, running the circumference of the earth several times over. Back in the kitchen, my mother was calling for me. I don't recall if she was angry or amused, but I remember her saying I was a "silly girl."

Those rare moments when Jane looks my way, I can tell exactly what she's thinking—she forgets I was once her age too. To her, I'm a dinosaur, a vestige of an old past that is hopelessly out of touch with her digital world. What she doesn't know is that her world is built upon the foundations of mine. Everything she enjoys today stems from the sacrifices of her parents' generation, my generation, and every generation before us.

I am elated to see my great-grandchildren live a liberating childhood, free of the unnecessary stresses and responsibilities that people from my generation, and every preceding one, had to endure. Knowing my little girls can benefit from opportunities I never had—or had to fight for—like proper schooling and university education, fills me with peace.

Stolen novel; please report.

I only wish Jane understood her easy-going liberties were not always so trivial. Where she wishes for more dresses, I fought for the right to wear trousers; Where she fusses over makeup, I battled to be seen as more than just a 'pretty face'; Where she begs for more jewellery, I yearned for that money to fund my education; Where she dreams of adulation, I longed for independence and freedom.

As I look at her now, I am reminiscent of myself back then. I still vividly remember the time my life began to change, as if it were yesterday. For years, under the veil of night, when everyone was asleep, I had gotten into the habit of sneaking into the playroom. The hard, wooden surfaces of my brothers' toy trains felt forbidden under my fingertips as I messed about with them and the faint moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. I'd covertly thieve a treat or two from the biscuit tin, savouring the illicit sweetness that crumbled on my tongue, leaving a trail of buttery crumbs on my nightgown. I didn't fully understand why at the time, but looking back, it was my way of rebelling and letting loose, I suppose.

Then, on a sweltering summer day, when Louie was no longer a baby but a toddler, my mother had gone to an afternoon tea with our neighbours. The house felt oddly quiet without her bustling presence, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall suddenly loud and insistent. My father had taken my older brothers horseback riding, their excited chatter fading as they rode away, leaving behind only the faint scent of leather and horses. I was only eight or nine, tasked with attending to Louie once again for the afternoon and keeping him entertained. We lived in a safe and poorly frequented area, and mother was close by, supposed to return within two hours. Still, it wasn't often that I was left home alone with Louie, and leaving me unsupervised, at such a young age, to take care of a toddler was worryingly careless.

Louie wouldn't stop crying, and I couldn't understand why. I had fed him, bathed him, played with him and even tried to sing him to sleep. Nothing worked—all he could do was wail relentlessly like a wounded animal. My ears were sore, spirit broken, frustrated beyond words. The walls seemed to close in, echoing his cries until they reverberated in my very bones. I too, began to sob uncontrollably, hot tears streaming down flushed cheeks as I ran out the kitchen door, leaving little Louie alone in our living room.

Seeking refuge, and driven by a sudden urge for escape, I dashed across our sun-baked lawn. The crickets buzzing frantically as I approached our grand apple tree, its gnarled branches reaching for the sky like welcoming arms. Without a second thought, I began to climb, my small hands gripping the rough bark, scraping the skin off my knees as I scrambled upwards. Higher and higher I went, the leaves rustling around me like whispered encouragements, until I reached the upper branches—the ones I had always wanted to climb but never found the time nor courage to attempt.

When mother came home, I heard the creak of our front door. The house fell silent for a moment before erupting with her desperate screams for Louie. My stomach dropped as I realised he had gone missing in the time I had ran from him. I was afraid to come down, for I had climbed too high, and I knew I would receive a beating if I was found. These were different times—corporal punishment was widespread. The acrid taste of panic filled my mouth as my mother's frantic footsteps echoed from house to garden and back. She was still scrambling to find Louie when father's car roared into the driveway, the engine's rumble growling out their arrival. Soon, everyone was on the search for him, their shouts bellowing through the air.

As the sun barely stood above the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, my father scoured the garden for a fourth time. The cooling air brought with it the sweet scent of ripening apples, mingling with the earthy smell of petrichor. I thought I was safe, concealed by the plush leaves of my loving apple tree, but I was wrong. One of my sandals betrayed me, slipping off my foot after I had tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position. It fell through the branches with a soft rustle before landing at my father's feet with a damning thud.

My breath caught in my throat as his eyes snapped upward, meeting mine through the gaps in the foliage. In that moment, I saw pure, unbridled fury flash across his face. "Get down here this instant!" he bellowed, his voice thunderous with rage. But as I tried to descend, fear gripped me. I had climbed far higher than I'd realised, and the ground seemed impossibly distant.

"I-I can't," I whimpered, clinging tightly to the branch.

Father had never been more furious with me in my entire life. I can't recall his words exactly, but he certainly had commanded me to come down. Terrified of his anger and desperate to obey, I closed my eyes and let go. The world spun around me as I fell, branches whipping past until I hit the ground with a sickening thud. Pain shot through my ankle, and I let out a cry.

Mother came rushing out, her face a storm of worry and anger. 'What were you thinking?' she cried, her voice shrill with fear and frustration. "Leaving your little brother all alone!"

Soon, the singing pain was no longer limited to my ankle. The time for my beating had come. As for my brothers—they watched from a safe distance within the comfort of our home, their wide eyes possibly a mixture of pity and relief that it was I, the recipient of our parents' wrath.

At least, Louie was no longer missing; he had been found prior to me, fast asleep, inside mother's closet, wrapped in several of her clothes.

That evening, I lay in my bed, stomach growling from missed supper, ankle and body throbbing. Through the floorboards, I could hear my parents' muffled voices from downstairs. Their urgent tones carried fragments of a conversation I couldn't fully grasp, but one thing was clear: they were discussing me. Words like 'discipline' and 'education' drifted up through the floorboards, each one feeling like a stone settling in the pit of my empty stomach.

Mother brought up 'Miss Havisham's Academy for Young Ladies'—a familiar name that ticked off my memory. A few days before, Mrs. Burton came by for a chat with mother. I was curious and pressed my ear against the parlour door, straining to overhear their muffled conversation. They had discussed her niece—who apparently was 'as stubborn as they come'—and this academy. The way they spoke of it, with hushed reverence and a hint of satisfaction, had made my blood run cold. As far as I had gathered, this place prided itself on transforming wild, unruly girls into 'proper ladies'.

Mother wanted to send me there, and father agreed. I learnt this the next morning over breakfast; it was devastating. I could only imagine what such a place would do to me, turning me glassy-eyed, porcelain-skinned, hair pristinely tied up with bows and pins. I was to become no better than a doll.

Had Mother stayed home that fateful day, had Louie been less temperamental, perhaps I wouldn't have had my outburst. Perhaps mother and father wouldn't have chosen to send me to a dame school. But it probably wouldn't have made a difference; my path was my own, and I would have walked it, one way or another.