**When Will You Be Moving Out, Marina?**
Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, a cup of tea in hand. Her voice carried indifference, laced with something almost dismissive.
“Moving out?” Marina turned slowly from her laptop, which warmed her knees. “Mum, I live here. I… I work.”
“Work?” Her mother’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Sitting online, writing your little poems? Articles? Who even reads those?”
Marina snapped the laptop shut. Her chest ached. It wasnt the first time her work had been dismissed as “not real,” but each time felt like a slap.
She *did* work. Freelancing wasnt easylate-night edits, tight deadlines, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
“I have steady clients,” she exhaled. “I pay the bills. I contribute”
“No ones blaming you,” her mother waved her off. “Its just the situation, love. You understand. Tom and Emma need the space nowtwo children in a one-bed flat. *Children*, Marina. Theyre cramped.”
“And what about me? Am I not family?” Her voice trembled.
“Youre on your own, Marina. Independent. Clever girlyoull manage. Find a place. Maybe even get a proper job, finally. Nine-to-five, like normal people.”
Marina swallowed the lump in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Her mother had never understood. Never once asked, *What do you write? Can I read it?* Only ever remarked, *Youd be better off as a cashier.*
*On your own.* The words rang like a verdict. An excuse to erase her from the flat, from their lives.
When her father returned, the conversation resumedlike a trial held in the living room.
“Toms done well for himself,” her father began, settling into his armchair. “Two kids, steady jobs. You… youre doing alright, but its time to be serious about life.”
“I *am* serious! I earn my keepmaybe not in an office, maybe in pyjamas, but I pay my way!”
“Its not about money,” he interrupted. “Its need. Toms childrenthe youngest is barely one. They *need* this flat. Its hard for them.”
“And its easy for me? At twenty-eight, no support, no partner, no childrenjust work you refuse to acknowledge!”
They exchanged glances, as if exhausted by her. As if her pain were mere petulance.
“Youre strong,” her mother sighed. “Youll cope. Tom and Emmathey cant even”
*When do I get to think?* she bit back, but the words stayed inside. She had no strength left.
“And where am I supposed to go?” she rasped.
“Youll find a room to let,” her mother answered vaguely. “Everyone your age rents. And youre not tied downno *proper* job, after all.”
Marina barely remembered the rest. Only sitting on the windowsill later, watching rain streak the glass like silent tears.
Morning brought noisesuitcases, voices. “Marina, were moving Toms things in,” her mother said, not looking at her. “You understand.”
She did. Had from the start. Living with it was the hard part.
“Its decided,” her mother continued, casual as passing the salt. “Youre a grown woman. Time to stand on your own. Its temporaryfind a place, maybe things will change.”
“Temporary? Right. Until Toms *grandchildren* need it.”
“Must you always be so dramatic?” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Were not your enemies. But family isnt just *you*.”
“Clearly.”
Her father reappeared. “Toms our son. Youre strongyoull understand.”
*I dont want to be strong. I just want to matter.*
The room she viewed was twenty minutes awaya world apart. Peeling floral wallpaper, a rickety stool, a landlady with a smokers rasp, eyeing her suspiciously.
“You work where?”
“Freelance. I write.”
“Online?”
“Yes.”
“Hmph. Laundry once a week. Electricitys dear.”
That night, her mother texted a photo: *Look, weve set up the crib! So sweet, isnt it?*
Very.
A week later, she moved to another citya content editor role, flexible hours, decent pay. The interviewers loved her portfolio. No one questioned if it was “real” work.
Her mothers call came months later, strained. “Marina… Tom wants to sell the flat. Take a mortgage. Hes been rude”
Marina listened. Twice. Felt nothing. No hurt, no anger. Just clarity: she owed them nothing.
Months passed. She adopted a cat, named him Biscuit. Bought a desk, hung a world map. Started a blog.
People read it. Wrote to her: *This is me. Thank you.*
One morning, she woke without tears. Brewed coffee. Opened her laptop. Wrote:
*”When family says youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”*
And signed:
*Marina. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.*
