**Diary Entry**
I still remember the day Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, holding her tea. Her voice was casual, almost dismissive.
*”So, when are you moving out, Charlotte?”*
I turned slowly from my laptop, which was warming my knees. *”Moving out? Mum, I live here. I work here.”*
*”Work?”* She gave me a crooked smile. *”Sitting online all day? Writing your little poems? Articles? Who even reads those?”*
I snapped the laptop shut. My chest tightened. It wasnt the first time shed dismissed my work as *”not real,”* but each time felt like a slap.
I *was* working. Freelancing wasnt easydeadlines, endless edits, clients who wanted everything yesterday but never paid on time.
*”I have regular clients,”* I said through gritted teeth. *”I pay my way. The bills, the food”*
*”No ones asking anything of you,”* she waved me off. *”Its just how things are. Youre a grown woman, Charlotte. You understand. Daniel and Emma want to move in with the kids. Two children, cramped in that one-bed flat. You know how it is.”*
*”And what am I? Not family?”* My voice shook.
*”Youre on your own, love. Independent. Theyve got kids. Priorities. Youll figure something out. Maybe find a proper job, nine-to-five, like normal people.”*
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Explaining was pointless. Shed never understood what I didnever asked, *”What do you write? Can I read it?”* Just the same old *”Shouldve been a cashier.”*
*”On your own.”* The words rang in my ears like a verdict. An excuse to erase me from the house, their lives.
Dad came home that evening, and the *”discussion”* resumedmore like a tribunal, with him, Mum, and me in the dock.
*”Daniels done well for himself,”* Dad began, settling into his armchair. *”Two kids, both working hard. You? Youre not lazy, Ill give you that. But its time to take life seriously.”*
*”Dad, I *am* living. Earning my keepeven if its from home, even if its in pyjamas!”*
*”Youre missing the point,”* he interrupted. *”Its not about money. Its about need. Daniels got two kidsa toddler, Charlotte. They *need* this place.”*
*”And I dont?”* My voice broke. *”Im 28, no partner, no kidsjust work you refuse to acknowledge!”*
They exchanged glances, as if I were being dramatic. *”Youre strong,”* Mum sighed. *”Youll manage. Daniel and Emmathey cant just”*
*”And when do *I* get to think?”* I didnt say it aloud. I was too tired.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of suitcases. Voices. Mum didnt even look at me. *”Charlotte, were storing Daniels things in the cupboard. Theyre moving in soon.”*
I *knew*. Had known from the start. But living with it? That was the hardest part.
*”So thats it? No discussion? Justleave?”*
*”Whats to discuss? Youre an adult.”* Her tone was light, as if asking me to pass the salt. *”Its temporary. Find a place, sort yourself out.”*
*”Temporary? Right. Until Daniels grandkids need a room.”*
*”Must you always be so dramatic?”* Mum rolled her eyes. *”Were not your enemies. But family isnt just *you*.”*
*”No, its Daniel. Always Daniel.”*
Dad reappeared. *”Hes our son. Youre strong. Youll understand.”*
*”I dont *want* to be strong. I just wanted to matter.”*
—
I viewed a rented room the next daytwenty minutes from home, but a world away. A dingy stairwell, peeling wallpaper, a landlady with a smokers rasp.
*”What do you do for work?”* she eyed me suspiciously.
*”Freelance. Writing. Online.”*
*”Online?”*
*”From home. Ive got steady clients.”*
*”Hmph. No parties. Laundry once a week. Electricitys dear.”*
That night, Mum texted a photo: *”Look! Weve set up the cot. Sweet, isnt it?”*
*”Very sweet.”*
Dad asked over dinner, *”So, whats the plan?”*
*”Found a room. Might move further later.”*
*”Good. And get a *proper* job. Office, colleagues”*
*”Dad,”* I sighed. *”My clients are global. I run a blog for a company turning over millions. My words reach thousands daily. But youll never see that, will you?”*
*”How do we *know* any of thats real? Daniels got payslips, a career. Yours is allsmoke and mirrors.”*
I stood, pocketed my keys. *”Thanks for teaching me to expect neither help nor respect.”*
*”Charlotte”* Mum called after me. *”We meant well.”*
I paused at the door. *”I know. Thats what makes it worse.”*
—
The new room smelled of mothballs. The walls were a dismal green. I sat on the bed, hugging my knees, thinking how easily theyd erased me.
No fuss. No fight. Just *”move out.” *”Youre strong.” *”You dont count.”*
Maybe it was for the best. But my chest was hollow.
*”You didnt break,”* I whispered into the dark. *”So youve already won.”*
—
Months later, I moved citiesa content editor job, good pay, flexible hours. No one questioned if it was *”real”* work. They loved my portfolio.
When I told Mum, she muttered, *”Dont be dramatic. We didnt *make* you leave.”*
*”You didnt *stop* me, either.”*
The new studio had park views. My own space. My own peace.
At work, my boss said, *”You write like youve lived it. Theres weight to your words.”*
*”I know what its like to be invisible,”* I said softly. *”I refuse to be now.”*
—
Mum called months later. *”Daniel wants to sell the house. Hes rude to us now. How are you? We miss you.”*
I listened. Felt nothing. No anger, no hurt. Just clarity: I owed them nothing.
I adopted a catSnowball. Bought a desk. Pinned a world map with places Id go. Started a blog. Wrote my truth.
People wrote back: *”This is me.” *”Thank you for seeing me.”*
I dreamed of the old house onceMums lilac dressing gown, pancakes on Sunday mornings. Woke with a knot in my throat, but no tears.
I opened my laptop. Typed:
*”When your family acts like youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”*
And signed:
*”Charlotte. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.”*
