**”When are you moving out, Emily?”**
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A cup of tea in her hands, her voice laced with indifferencealmost disdain.
*”Moving out?”* Emily turned slowly from her laptop, the glow warming her knees. *”Mum, I live here. I I work.”*
*”Work?”* Mum arched a brow, a twisted smirk flashing across her face. *”Right. That thing you do online. Your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads that?”*
Emily snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. Shed heard it beforeher work wasnt *real*but each time, it felt like a slap.
She *tried*. Freelancing wasnt easyendless edits, deadlines, typing till dawn, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
*”I have steady clients,”* she exhaled. *”I earn. I pay my sharebills, food”*
*”No ones asking anything of you,”* Mum cut in, waving a hand. *”Its just the situation, love. Youre grown. You understand.”*
*”Tom and Lisa want to move in. With the kids. Two of them, Em. Theyre cramped in that one-bed flat”*
*”And what am I? Not family?”* Her voice cracked.
*”Youre single, Em. Youre self-sufficient. Theyve got *children*. Youre smartyoull figure it out. Maybe even find a proper job, yeah? Nine-to-five, like normal people.”*
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never asked, *”What do you write? Can I read it?”* Only dismissals. *”Better off as a cashier.”*
*Single*. The word rang like a verdict. An excuse to erase her from the flat. From their lives.
When Dad came home, the “trial” resumedhim, Mum, her, the defendant.
*”Toms done well for himself,”* Dad began, sinking into his armchair. *”Two kids, steady jobs. You? Youre trying. But its time to get serious.”*
*”I *am* serious!”* Emilys nails dug into her palms. *”I earn. Maybe not in an office, but I pay my way!”*
*”Its not about money,”* he interrupted. *”Its about need. Toms youngest is barely two. They *need* this place.”*
*”And *I* dont?!”* The words burst out. *”Im 28no partner, no kids, just a job you refuse to acknowledge!”*
They exchanged a glance. As if she were exhausting. As if her pain were melodrama.
*”Youre strong,”* Mum said mournfully. *”Youll manage. Tom and Lisatheyve no time to even *think*”*
*”And I do?”* she thought bitterly.
*”Where am I supposed to go?”* Her voice was raw.
*”Rent a room,”* Mum shrugged. *”Everyone does it. Youre not tied downno *proper* job, after all.”*
*”Are you *hearing* yourselves?!”*
—-
The next morning, suitcases thudded in the hall.
*”Em, were storing Toms things in your room,”* Mum said, not looking up. *”Theyre moving in. You understand.”*
She did. Had from the start.
*”So thats it? No discussion?”*
*”Whats to discuss? Youre an adult.”* Mums tone was casual, like passing the salt. *”Its temporary. Find a placemaybe thingsll change.”*
*”Temporary? Right. Till Toms *grandkids* need it.”*
*”Always so dramatic,”* Mum sighed. *”Were family. Its not just about you.”*
*”No. Its about *Tom*.”*
—-
The rented room smelled of mothballs. Grey-beige curtains, peeling wallpaper. Emily sat on the bed, knees to her chest, replaying how easily theyd erased her.
No fuss. No fight. Just *”move out.”* *”Youre strong.”* *”Youre aloneyou dont count.”*
A text from Tom sealed it:
*”Whens the paperwork sorted? Flats ours nowno messy splits later.”*
She typed back, fingers cold:
*”Im still on the lease. You kicked me out. Now you want my *rights*?”*
His reply was instant:
*”Chill. Just keeping it clean. You left. Why cling on?”*
—-
Weeks later, Aunt Maggie calledMums sister, the only one with sense.
*”Em, love Im ashamed of her. Youre brilliant. Your work *matters*.”*
Emily cried then. The first kindness in years.
—-
She moved cities. Took a content-editor roleremote, good pay. The team adored her portfolio. No one asked if it was *”real”* work.
Mums voicemail came months later:
*”Em Tom wants to sell the flat. Hes *rude* now. Lisas distant How are you? We miss you.”*
Emily felt nothing. No anger. No ache. Just clarity: *She owed them nothing.*
—-
Now, her studio flat smells of coffee. A rescue cat, *Biscuit*, dozes in sunbeams. Her blog thrivesreaders write, *”This is *me*.”*
One morning, she drafts a post:
*”When family says youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”*
Signed:
*”Emily. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.”*
