**Diary Entry**
*”When are you moving out, love?”* Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A teacup in her hands, her voice indifferent, laced with something almost dismissive.
*”Moving out?”* Emily slowly turned from her laptop, which warmed her knees. *”Mum, I live here. I… work.”*
*”Work?”* Mum arched a brow, a crooked smile flashing. *”Oh, right. Thissitting online. Writing your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads those?”*
Emily snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. Not the first time shed heard her work wasnt *real*, but each time stung like a slap.
Freelancing wasnt easyendless edits, deadlines, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
*”I have regular clients,”* she exhaled. *”I earn. I pay my shareutilities, food”*
*”No ones asking anything of you,”* Mum waved her off. *”Its just the situation, Em. Youre grown. You understand. Tom and Lisa want to move in with the kids. Two little ones, Em. Their one-beds cramped.”*
*”And what am I? Not family?”* Her voice shook.
*”Youre single, love. Independent. Youll manage. Find a proper job, maybenine-to-five, like normal people.”*
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum never asked, *What do you write? Where can I read it?* Only sighs, sideways glances, *”Shouldve taken that till job.”*
*Single.* The word rang like a verdict. Reason enough to erase her from the flat, their lives.
When Dad came home, the “trial” resumed. Him, Mum, herlike some domestic tribunal.
*”Toms got responsibilities,”* Dad began, settling into his armchair. *”Two kids, a steady job. Youre… clever, but its time to get serious.”*
*”I *am* serious! I earnmaybe not in an office, maybe in pyjamas, but I contribute!”*
*”Its not about money,”* he cut in. *”Its need. Toms youngest is eighteen months. They need this flat.”*
*”And I dont?!”* Her voice cracked. *”Im 28no partner, no kids, just work you dont even acknowledge!”*
They exchanged glances. As if she were exhausting. As if her pain were theatrics.
*”Youre strong,”* Mum said mournfully. *”Youll cope. Tom and Lisathey cant just”*
*”And I can?”* She didnt say it. No energy left.
*”Where am I supposed to go?”* she rasped.
*”Rent somewhere,”* Mum shrugged. *”Everyone does it. Youre not tied downno proper job, eh?”*
*”Hear yourselves?”*
She barely remembered the rest. Just sitting on the windowsill later, watching rain streak the glass like silent tears.
—
Next morning, noisesuitcases, voices. *”Em, were storing Toms things in your room. You understand.”*
She did. Had from the start. Living with it was what choked her.
*”So no discussion? Just… done?”*
*”Whats to discuss? Youre an adult.”* Mums tone was casual, like passing the salt. *”Its temporary. Find a placemaybe things change later.”*
*”Temporary? Right. Till Toms kids have grandkids.”*
*”Always so dramatic,”* Mum rolled her eyes. *”Were not villains. But family isnt just you.”*
*”Clearly.”*
Dad reappeared. *”Toms our son. Youre… resilient. Youll understand.”*
*I dont want to be resilient. I just want to matter.*
—
The rented room was a museum of neglect: peeling rose wallpaper, a lopsided stool, a landlady who eyed her like a debt collector.
*”You work where?”*
*”Freelance. Articles. Online.”*
*”Online?”*
*”On my laptop. Ive got steady clients.”*
*”Hmph. No parties. Laundry once a week. Electrics pricey.”*
*”Lovely,”* Emily murmured.
That evening, Mum texted a photo: *”Look! Toms cots all set up. Sweet, isnt it?”*
*Very.*
—
At dinner, Dad asked, *”Sorted your plans?”* Shed come for the last of her thingstrainers, a tripod, Grandads old blanket.
*”Found a room. Might move cities later.”*
*”Good. And get a real jobpeople, a schedule…”*
*”Dad,”* she sighed. *”My clients are global. I blog for a firm turning over millions. Ten thousand readers a day. But youll never see it.”*
*”Hows anyone to know, eh? Toms got payslips, spreadsheets. Yours is all… air.”*
*”Then Ill live on air. Thanks for teaching me to expect neither help nor pride.”*
He called after her as she left: *”We meant well.”*
She paused at the door. *”Thats the problem.”*
—
The new room smelled of mothballs. Grey-beige curtains. Dingy green walls.
Emily hugged her knees, thinking how easily shed been erased. No fanfare. Just *”Youre strong. Youre aloneyou dont count.”*
Maybe it was for the best. But her chest stayed hollow.
*”You didnt break,”* she whispered into the dark. *”So youve already won.”*
—
She woke before dawn most days. Lay staring at the ceiling. The pensioner next door grumbling about “kids these days,” the reek of old carpetit all pressed like a weight.
Worse was knowing *home* wasnt hers anymore. That her parents saw her as ballast.
She worked relentlessly. Wrote for companies, took extra gigs, edited past midnight. Money came. Clients praised. She felt nothing.
The hurt stayed.
Then a text from Tom: *”When you redoing the paperwork? Flats ours nowclean break, yeah?”*
She stared. *Clean break?*
*”Im still on the lease. You kicked me out. Now my rights too?”*
He replied fast: *”Dont be daft. Just tidy. You said youre leaving. Why cling on?”*
*”Enjoy your tidy life, Tom,”* she muttered. *”Gratitudes clearly not in your vocabulary.”*
—
A weekend in the park. Coffee, her laptop, no wordsjust loud, bitter thoughts.
Shed dreamed of writing for a magazine. Big pieces. Inspiring. Explaining. How many sleepless nights? How much sweat? Not once had her parents said, *”Were proud.”*
To them: Tom = good bloke, family man. Her = unlucky spinster, *”not proper work.”*
And soerased.
Aunt Val called that evening. Mums sister, always the sensible one.
*”Em, loveI just heard. Im ashamed of her. Of all of it.”*
*”Its fine.”*
*”Its *not*. Youre brilliant. Holding your own. And them? A flats not a kennelyou dont just turf people out. Your works as real as it gets. The world runs on folks like you.”*
Tears fell then. Relief. Someone *saw* her.
*”Thanks, Aunt Val.”*
*”Familys who stands by you, love. Not just blood. And them? Let em live with it.”*
—
A week later, she moved cities. A content editor roleremote, good pay. The interview was easy. No one questioned her *”real job.”* They loved her portfolio.
When she told Mum, the reply was flat: *”If youve decided. Dont be dramatic. We meant well.”*
*”Well?”* Emily said calmly. *”You threw me out. No choice. No discussion.”*
*”You always twist things”* The line went dead.
—
Her new studio had park views. Sparse but hers. Every mug, every quiet evening*hers.*
A month in, she visited the office. Lively team, whiteboards, coffee debates.
*”You fit right in,”* her boss said. *”Your writingits got weight. Like youve lived it.”*
She almost told themthe flat, Tom, Mums *”
