**”When Are You Moving Out, Beth?”**
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A cup of tea in her hands, her voice indifferent, almost dismissive.
“Moving out?” Beth slowly turned from her laptop, its warmth on her knees. “Mum, I *live* here. I work.”
“Work?” Mum arched a brow, a crooked smile flickering. “Oh, right. Thatsitting online. Your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads those?”
Beth snapped the laptop shut. Her chest ached. Not the first time shed heard her work wasnt “real,” but each time felt like a slap.
She *tried*. Freelancing wasnt lazyit meant deadlines, edits at dawn, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
“I have steady clients,” she breathed. “I pay my share. The bills, the”
“No ones demanding anything,” Mum waved her off. “But Beth, love, be reasonable. Tom and Emma need the space. Two kids in a one-bed flatyou *know* how tight it is.”
“And *Im* not family?” Her voice trembled.
“Youre single, Beth. Independent. Toms got a *family*. Youll managefind a place, maybe even a *proper* job. Nine-to-five, like normal people.”
Beth swallowed the lump in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never asked, *What do you write? Can I read it?* Just sighs. *Shouldve been a cashier.*
*Single.* The word rang like a verdict. An excuse to erase her from the flat, their lives.
When Dad came home, the “trial” resumedhim, Mum, Beth, the accused.
“Toms done well,” Dad began, settling into his armchair. “Two kids, steady jobs. Youre driven, but its time to get serious.”
“I *am* serious! I earn my keepmaybe at home, in pyjamas, but I pay my way!”
“Its not about money,” he cut in. “Its *need*. Toms kids are little. Theyre struggling.”
“And Im not?” Her voice cracked. “Twenty-eight, no support, no partnerjust work you refuse to respect!”
They exchanged glances. As if she were tiresome. A tantrum, not pain.
“Youre strong,” Mum said mournfully. “Youll cope. Tom and Emmathey cant just”
*”When do I get to just?”* she thought but didnt say.
“And where am I supposed to go?” she rasped.
“Find a flatshare,” Mum shrugged. “Everyone does it. Youre not tied down.”
“*Listen* to yourselves!”
That night, rain streaked the window like silent tears.
—
By morning, the eviction was underway. Suitcases in the hall. Toms cot assembled in her room. “Look how *sweet*,” Mum texted, with a photo.
Beth found a bedsitpeeling wallpaper, a landlady who sneered, “No guests. Laundry once a week.”
Over dinner, Dad pressed, “Get a *real* job. Office, colleagues”
“My clients are global,” she said dully. “I write for a blog with millions of readers.”
“Toms got payslips, pensions. Yours is all air.”
She stood, keys in hand. “Thanks for teaching me to expect nothing.”
Mum called after her, “We meant well!”
Beth paused at the door. “Thats the problem.”
—
The bedsit smelled of mothballs. Green walls, beige curtains. She lay awake, thinking: *Erased. Quietly. Because “single” meant expendable.*
Weeks passed. Work became her armourarticles, edits, silence. Then a message from Tom:
*”Whenll you sign the flat over? Keep it clean.”*
She stared. *Clean?*
**Her reply:** *”You kicked me out. Now my *name* is clutter?”*
**Tom:** *”Dont be dramatic. We live here now.”*
—
Aunt Linda calledMums sister, the only one whod ever *seen* her.
“Beth, Im *ashamed* of them. Your work *is* real. The world runs on people like you.”
Beth cried then. Not from painrelief.
“Family isnt blood,” Linda said. “Its who *shows up*.”
—
A job offer cameContent Editor, another city. The interviewers *loved* her portfolio. No one asked if it was “proper.”
When she told Mum, the reply was brittle: “Dont be bitter. We *meant well*.”
“I know. Thats the tragedy.”
—
Her new studio overlooked a park. No voices saying, *Give way. Youre less.*
At work, her boss remarked, “Your writingit *hurts*. Like youve been unseen.”
Beth smiled. “I was. Now Im not.”
—
Months later, a voicemail from Mum:
*”Tom wants to sell the flat Hes so *rude* now We miss you.”*
Beth listened. And feltnothing. No rage, no pull. Just quiet certainty: *I owe you nothing.*
She adopted a cat, named him Biscuit. Bought a desk, pinned a world map: *Places Ill go.*
Her blog grew. Readers wrote, *This is me.*
One night, she dreamt of homethe one before the walls closed in. She woke, not crying, and wrote:
**”When family says youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”**
**Signed:** *Beth. Writer. Freelancer. Free.*
—
**The Lesson:**
Blood doesnt define worth. Sometimes, the bravest thing is building a family of those who *choose* youeven if that family is just you, finally choosing yourself.
