**When Will You Move Out, Marina?**
Mother stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A teacup in her hands, her voice indifferent, almost dismissive.
*”Move out?”* Marina turned slowly from her laptop, its warmth seeping into her knees. *”Mum, I live here. I… I work.”*
*”Work?”* Mothers lips twisted into a crooked smile. *”Sitting online, writing your little poems? Articles? Who even reads that?”*
Marina snapped the laptop shut. Her chest ached. It wasnt the first time shed been told her work wasnt *real*, but each time felt like a slap.
She *did* work. Freelancing wasnt easydeadlines, endless edits, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
*”I have regular clients,”* she exhaled. *”I pay bills. I contribute”*
*”No ones demanding anything,”* Mother waved her off. *”But the situations changed, Marina. Youre grown. You understand.”*
*”Tom and Lucy need the space. Two children, Marina. Theyre cramped in that tiny flat.”*
*”And what am I? Not family?”* Her voice trembled.
*”Youre on your own. *Independent.* Tom has responsibilities. A family.”*
*”People work nine-to-five, by the way. Not hunched over a laptop at midnight.”*
Marina said nothing. The lump in her throat burned. Explaining was pointless. Mother had never asked, *”What do you write? Can I read it?”* Only ever: *”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 Father returned, the conversation resumedthis time with him seated like a judge.
*”Toms done well for himself,”* he began. *”Two kids, steady jobs. You? Youre… trying. But its time to get serious.”*
*”I *am* serious. I earn my keep!”*
*”This isnt about money. Its about *need.* Toms youngest is barely one. Theyre struggling.”*
*”And Im not? Twenty-eight, no support, no partner, just work you refuse to acknowledge!”*
They exchanged glancesas if she were exhausting. As if her pain were mere petulance.
*”Youre strong,”* Mother said, almost mournful. *”Youll manage. But Tom and Lucy… they cant even think”*
*”When do *I* get to think?”* she nearly spat, but stayed silent.
*”Where am I supposed to go?”* she rasped.
*”Rent a room. Young people all do it. Youre not tied down.”*
*”Do you even hear yourselves?”*
That night, rain streaked the window like silent tears.
By morning, the flat buzzed with activitysuitcases, voices. *”Toms things need storing,”* Mother said, not meeting her eyes. *”You understand.”*
She did. Disgust curdled in her gut.
*”So thats it? No discussion?”*
*”Whats to discuss? Youre an adult.”*
*”Temporarily,”* Father added. *”Find a place. Things may change.”*
*”Change?”* She laughed bitterly. *”In twenty years, when Toms got grandchildren?”*
*”Must you always twist things?”* Mother rolled her eyes. *”We care. But family isnt just *you.*”*
*”No. Its all for Tom. Im excess. A ghost on the sofa.”*
Father sighed. *”Toms our son. You… youll understand.”*
(*”I dont *want* to be strong. I just want to matter.”*)
—
The rented room smelled of mothballs. Faded curtains, peeling wallpaper. The landlady eyed her skeptically.
*”You work *online*?”*
*”Freelance writing. Clients worldwide.”*
*”Hmph. No parties. Laundry once a week. Electricitys dear.”*
Later, Mother texted: *”Look! Weve set up the crib. Sweet, isnt it?”*
(*Sweet.* Like a knife.)
*”Found a place,”* she told Father, gathering her last thingstrainers, a tripod, Grandads old blanket.
*”Good. Now find proper work. With colleagues. A *schedule.*”*
*”Dad. My clients span continents. I write for a company with *millions* in revenue.”*
*”Who verifies that? Toms jobpay slips, reportsthats *real.* Yours? Smoke and mirrors.”*
She pocketed her key. *”Thanks for teaching me to expect neither help nor respect.”*
*”Marina”* His voice chased her. *”We meant no harm.”*
*”No. Just thoughtlessness.”*
—
The new room was green-walled, dim. She hugged her knees, thinking how *easily* theyd erased her.
No scenes. Just *”Youre strong. Youre aloneso you dont count.”*
(*Maybe its better this way.* But her chest felt hollow.)
*”You didnt break,”* she whispered into the dark. *”So youve already won.”*
—
Weeks passed. She wrote relentlessly, fueled by silence. The money came. The praise. None of it numbed the ache.
Then, a text from Tom:
*”Whenll you sign over your rights? The flats ours now. Keep it clean.”*
(*Clean.* As if she were stains.)
*”Registered there. *You* pushed me out. Now you want my legal ties severed?”*
His reply: *”Dont fuss. Just being practical.”*
(*”Practical,”* she muttered. *”Like vultures.”*)
—
In the park, coffee cooling, she remembered her dreamworking for a *real* publication, crafting words that mattered.
How many nights shed poured into this? And never once had they said, *”Were proud.”*
Tom was the *son*, the *provider.* She? The failed daughter.
(*Crossed out. Like a typo.*)
Aunt ValMothers sistercalled that evening. *”Im ashamed of them. Youre brilliant. Your work *matters.*”*
Marina cried then. Not from pain. From being *seen.*
*”Family isnt blood,”* Val said. *”Its who stands by you. Theyll answer to their consciences.”*
—
A job offer camecontent editor, another city. The interviewers adored her portfolio. No one questioned if it was *real.*
*”Moving,”* she told Mother.
*”Well, if youve decided. Dont be dramatic. We meant well.”*
*”You *evicted* me.”*
*”You exaggerate. We never”*
*”You did.”* Calm. Final. The line went dead.
—
Her new studio overlooked a park. Sparse, sunlit. *Hers.*
Coffee shops. Quiet. No demands.
At the office meetup, her boss smiled. *”You fit here. Your writingit *grabs.* Like youve known pain.”*
*”I have,”* Marina said. *”I wont be invisible again.”*
—
Months later: a voicemail. Mothers voice, strained.
*”Tom wants to sell the flat. Take a bigger mortgage. Hes… changed. We argued. Marina… we miss you.”*
She listened. Thrice. Felt nothing.
No rage. No longing. Just clarity: *She owed them nothing.*
—
She adopted a cat*Biscuit*, white as peace. Bought a desk. Pinned a world map: *”Places to go.”*
Started a blog. Wrote *her* truth. Readers wrote back: *”This is *me.*”*
One night, she dreamed of homenot the flat, but the *idea* of it. Where shed been wanted.
She woke. Made coffee. Typed:
*”When family says youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”*
Signed:
*”Marina. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.”*
