So, when are you moving out, love?
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug of tea in hand. Her voice was casual, laced with something almost dismissive.
Moving out? Emily blinked up from her laptop, which was warming her knees. Mum, I *live* here. I I *work* here.
Work? Mums lips twisted into a half-smile. Oh, you mean all that typing away online. Your little poems? Or those articles? You really think people read that?
Emily snapped the laptop shut. The sting was familiarher work was never real enoughbut it still felt like a slap every time.
She *did* work. Freelancing wasnt just lounging in pyjamas. It was deadlines at 3 a.m., clients who wanted everything yesterday, invoices chased like lost cats
I have regular clients, she said tightly. I pay my way. The electricity, the Wi-Fi
No ones *asking* anything of you, Mum waved her off. Its just well. Tom and Sarah need the space, Em. Two kids in a one-bed flatits not fair, is it?
Emilys fingers dug into the sofa. And Im not family, then?
Youre *single*, love. You can manage. But them? Kids, responsibilities. Youre clever. Youll sort yourself out.
The unspoken jab: *Get a proper job. Nine-to-five, like normal people.*
Dad took over that evening, settling into his armchair like a judge. Toms got his life sortedsteady job, wife, kids. You? Well its time to get serious, love.
I *am* serious! Emilys voice cracked. I earn. I contribute. Just because I dont wear a lanyard doesnt mean Im playing pretend!
Its not about money, Dad sighed. Its about *need*. Toms toddler needs a nursery. Theyre *struggling*.
And Im not?! The words burst out. Twenty-eight, no partner, no safety netjust a career you refuse to acknowledge!
Their exchanged glance said it all: *Dramatic, as usual.*
By morning, the shuffling began. Suitcases in the hall, Toms baby cot already assembled in *her* room. Mum chirped, Isnt it *lovely*? as if discussing the weather.
The rented room Emily found smelled of damp and boiled cabbage. The landlady squinted. You work *online*? Thats not a job, is it?
A week later, Tom messaged: *Whens the paperwork sorted? The flats ours now.*
Emily stared at her phone. *Ours.* As if shed vanished.
Aunt Maggie calledthe only one whod ever taken her side. Theyre ashamed, pet. Your writings brilliant. The *world* runs on people like you now.
Emily cried then. Not from defeat, but from being *seen* at last.
She moved to Manchester. A studio flat, a freelance gig with a tech firm, mornings in cafés with her laptop. No one muttered, *Shouldnt you be in an office?*
Six months in, Mum left a rambling voicemail: *Toms selling the flat hes so rude now We miss you.*
Emily felt nothing. No anger, no victory. Just quiet.
She adopted a scruffy tabby named Biscuit, pinned up a world map marked *Places to Escape To*, and wrote a blog post titled:
*When Your Family Acts Like Youre NothingBecome Everything to Yourself.*
Signed: *Emily. Writer. Freelancer. Unapologetic. Free.*
