*”When are you planning to move out, Emily?”*
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A cup of tea in her hands, her voice indifferent, edged with something almost dismissive.
*”Move out?”* Emily slowly turned away from the laptop warming her knees. *”Mum, I live here. I work.”*
*”Work?”* Mum repeated, a crooked smile flickering across her face. *”Right. This, sitting online. Writing your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads that?”*
Emily snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. Shed heard it beforethat her work wasnt *real*but each time felt like a slap.
Because she *tried*. Freelancing wasnt easyendless edits, deadlines, late-night drafts, clients who wanted everything *yesterday* and never paid on time
*”I have regular clients,”* she exhaled. *”And I earn enough. I pay for utilities, I”*
*”No ones demanding anything,”* Mum cut in, waving a hand. *”Its just the situation, love. Youre an adult. You understand.”*
*”Tom and Sarah want to move in with the kids. Theyve got two, Emily. *Children*. Theyre cramped in that tiny flat.”*
*”And what am I? Not family?”* Her voice cracked.
*”Youre on your own, love. Independent. Youll manage. Find somewhere. Maybe finally get a *proper* job”*
*”People work nine to five, you know. Not hunched over a laptop all night.”*
Emily stayed silent. A lump rose in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never understood what she did.
Not once had she asked, *”What do you write? Where can I read it?”*
Only remarks. Patronising glances. *”Youd be better off as a cashier.”*
*On your own.* The words rang in her ears like a verdict. A reason to erase her from the flat, from their lives, from the family.
When Dad got home, the conversation resumednow with him, Mum, and her, like some domestic tribunal.
*”Tom and his wife have done well,”* Dad began, settling into his armchair. *”Both working, two kids.”*
*”Youre not lazy, no. But its time to get serious about life.”*
*”Dad, I *live* here. Im not a burden! I earn my keepeven if its from home, even if Im in pyjamas! I pay for food, bills”*
*”Youre missing the point,”* he interrupted. *”This isnt about money. Its about *need*.”*
*”Toms got two kids, Emily. The youngest is only eighteen months. They *need* this flat.”*
*”And what about *my* needs?!”* Her voice broke. *”Im 28! No support, no partner, no kids. Just a job you refuse to acknowledge!”*
They exchanged glances. As if she were exhausting them. As if her pain were just dramatics.
*”Youre strong, love,”* Mum said, shaking her head. *”Youll cope. Tom and Sarahthey dont even have time to *think*”*
*”And when do *I* get to think?”* she wanted to scream. But she didnt.
*”Where am I supposed to go?”* she asked hoarsely. *”Im not asking for money. Just a corner. Just *understanding*.”*
*”Youll find a rental,”* Mum said vaguely. *”Everyone does it these days. And youre not *officially* employed, so youre not tied down.”*
*”Do you even *hear* yourselves?”*
She barely remembered the rest of the evening. Just sitting on the windowsill later, watching the rain streak the glass like silent tears.
—
The next morning, she woke to noise in the hallway. Suitcases. Voices. Bustle.
*”Emily, were storing Toms things in the cupboard,”* Mum said, not even looking at her. *”You understand.”*
She did. Had understood from the start. But living with it was unbearable.
*”You see, love, its all settled,”* Mum said, like she was passing the salt. Casual. *”Youre a grown woman. Time to stand on your own feet.”*
*”Temporarily?”* Emily laughed bitterly. *”Right. For the next twenty years, until Toms got grandkids.”*
*”Must you always twist things?”* Mum rolled her eyes. *”Were not your *enemies*. But family isnt just *you*.”*
*”Of course not,”* Emily whispered. *”Everything for Tom. And Im just in the way.”*
Dad reappeared. *”Toms our *son*, Emily. Youre strong. Youll understand.”*
*”I dont *want* to be strong,”* she thought. *”I just want to matter.”*
—
The next day, she viewed a room to rent.
Twenty minutes from home, and the world changed: a grey building with rusted doors, a pensioner neighbour muttering about *”cats yowling at night.”*
The place was a museum of clutterpeeling rose-patterned wallpaper, a carpet nailed to the wall, a stool missing a leg.
The landlady eyed her suspiciously. *”Where do you work?”*
*”Freelance. I write articles. Online.”*
*”Online?”* The woman frowned. *”Whats that?”*
*”On my laptop. I have steady clients.”*
*”So you sit at home?”* She sniffed. *”No guests. Laundry once a week. Electricitys *expensive*.”*
Emily nodded, feeling everything inside her collapse.
*”Lovely,”* she thought. *”Home sweet home.”*
That evening, Mum texted a photo: *”Look! Weve set up the cot! Isnt it sweet?”*
*”Oh, *delightful*,”* she muttered.
—
A week later, she moved to another city. A content editor roleflexible hours, decent pay. The interview had been effortless. No one questioned if her work was *real*.
When she told Mum, the response was flat: *”If thats what you want. Dont be dramatic.”*
*”Dramatic?”* Emily exhaled. *”You *kicked me out*. Silently. Without a choice.”*
*”We *meant well*,”* Mum snapped, hanging up.
The night before leaving, she pressed her palm to the hallway wall of her childhood home. Closed her eyes.
*”Is everything lost?”* she wondered. Then: *”No. Ive gained something better. *Myself*.”*
—
The new city was a fresh start. A studio flat with park views. Quiet mornings. No one tugging at her, no one saying, *”You dont *really* work.”*
At the office meet-up, her manager smiled. *”You fit right in. Youve got *experience*.”*
Emily paused. *”Life experience,”* she said softly. *”The concentrated kind.”*
Months later, she adopted a rescue cat*Biscuit*, white as dawn. Bought a desk. Pinned a world map to the wall: *”Places Ill go.”*
Started a blog. Wrote honestlyno shame, no pretence. Messages poured in: *”This is *me*,”* *”You put my heart into words.”*
Then, one evening, a voicemail from Mum:
*”Emily Tom wants to sell the flat. Take a bigger mortgage. Hes so *rude* now How are you? We miss you.”*
She listened. Twice. Feltnothing. No anger, no longing. Just clarity: *”I owe them nothing.”*
That night, she dreamt of the old houseMums lilac dressing gown, the smell of pancakes. A place where shed been *wanted*.
She woke with a dry throat. But no tears.
Brewed coffee. Opened her laptop. Typed:
*”When family treats you like *nothing*become *everything* to yourself.”*
At the bottom, she signed:
*”Emily. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.”*
