When are you moving out, Jenny? Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A cup of tea in her hands, her voice indifferent, almost dismissive.
Moving out? Jenny slowly turned from her laptop, which warmed her knees. Mum, I live here. I I work.
Work? Mum arched a brow, a crooked smile flickering. Sitting online, writing your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads those?
Jenny snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. Shed heard it beforethat her work wasnt realbut each time, it stung like a slap.
She *did* work. Freelancing wasnt easyendless edits, tight deadlines, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
I have regular clients, she exhaled. And I earn enough. I pay my shareutilities, groceries
No ones blaming you, Mum waved her off. Its just the situation, love. Youre grown up, you understand. Tom and Lisa want to move in with the kids. Two little ones, Jenny. Theyre cramped in that one-bed flat.
And what about me? Am I not family? Her voice trembled.
Youre on your own, love. You can manage. But theyve got children, a proper family. Youre smart, independent. Youll find somewhere. Maybe even a *proper* jobnine-to-five, like normal people.
Jenny stayed silent. A lump rose in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never understood what she did. Never once asked, *What do you write? Where can I read it?* Just sighs, pitying looks, remarks like, *Shouldve taken that till job.*
*On your own.* The words rang in her ears like a verdict. An excuse to erase her from the flat, from their lives.
When Dad came home, the conversation resumednow with him, Mum, and her, like some domestic tribunal.
Tom and his wife have done well, Dad began, settling into his armchair. Both working, two kids. You well, youre trying. But its time to get serious about life.
Dad, I *live* here. Im not lazy! I earn moneymaybe from home, maybe in pyjamasbut I pay my way!
Youre missing the point, he cut in. This isnt about money. Its about *need*. Toms got two childrena toddler, Jenny. They need this flat. Its hard for them.
And its easy for me?! Her voice cracked. Im 28, no partner, no kids, no supportjust *work* you refuse to acknowledge!
They exchanged glances. As if she were exhausting them. As if her pain were just drama.
Youre strong, love, Mum said mournfully. Youll cope. But Tom and Lisathey cant even think
*When do I get to think?* she bit back silently.
And where am I supposed to go? she rasped.
Find a rental, Mum said vaguely. Everyone your age flatshares. And youre not tied downno *proper* job, so
Are you *hearing* yourselves?!
She didnt remember how that night ended. Just sitting on the windowsill later, watching rain streak the glass like silent tears.
By morning, the noise begansuitcases, voices. Toms things shuffled into storage.
Weve sorted it, love, Mum said breezily, like discussing the weather. Youll manage.
Jenny left the next week. A shoebox room in a grimy house, a landlady who eyed her suspiciously. Freelance? Thats not a *real* job.
At home, Mum texted photos: *Look, weve set up the crib! So sweet, isnt it?*
Jenny blocked the number.
Months passed. She moved citiesa content editor role, a studio flat with park views. No one questioned her work. No one called her *less than*.
One evening, Mum called, voice wobbling. Jenny Tom wants to sell the flat. Hes been awful. Are you alright?
Jenny listened. *Funny*, she thought. *It doesnt hurt anymore.*
She adopted a catFluffy, white as new beginnings. Bought a desk, pinned up a *Places to See* map. Started a blog. Wrote truths shed once swallowed.
Readers wrote back: *This is me. Thank you.*
One night, she dreamt of her childhood homeMums lilac dressing gown, pancake mornings. The version where she belonged.
She woke with an ache, but no tears.
Brewed coffee. Opened her laptop. Typed:
*When family treats you like nothingbecome everything to yourself.*
Signed:
*Jenny. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.*
