Parents and Their “Support”
“Until you turn eighteen, I’ll give you money—small amounts, enough for food and clothes, barely. After that, you’re on your own, Emily,” Mum declared with an air of someone bestowing a grand favour. I stood there, thunderstruck, unable to believe my own mother—Linda Nicholson—could say such a thing. So, was I a stranger to them the moment I blew out my eighteenth birthday candles? And what did she mean by “like us”? I never wanted to be like my parents, who’d seemingly forgotten what family even meant. But her words cut so deep I still haven’t recovered.
I’m sixteen, and I’ve always known our relationship wasn’t perfect. Mum and Dad—let’s call him Andrew—live their lives, and I live mine. They’re not bad people, just… let’s say, not the most reliable. Dad flits between jobs and garage hangouts with his mates, while Mum’s perpetually busy—sometimes selling jumble at the car boot, other times gossiping with the neighbours. I’ve been fending for myself since forever: cooking, cleaning, acing my GCSEs to get into uni. But I never thought they’d outright say, “After eighteen, you’re on your own.”
It all started last week when I asked Mum for money for new trainers—mine were falling apart, and sports day was coming up. No one wants to sprint in rags. She looked at me like I’d asked for a diamond tiara and said, “Emily, you’re old enough to earn your own. I already give you enough for food.” *Give me*? A measly twenty quid a week barely covers bus fare and a meal deal! I tried explaining trainers weren’t a luxury, but she cut me off: “Until eighteen, fine. After that, figure it out. We’re not your personal bank.” I nearly choked. Not a bank? Then what were they—just landlords with expired affection?
I locked myself in my room and cried till midnight. Not over the trainers, but the ice in her tone. I’d never been a burden—never whinged for designer rubbish like my classmates. I dreamed of uni, a job, independence. But I thought I had a family who’d catch me if I stumbled. Now? Mum’s made it clear: at eighteen, I’m off their balance sheet. And that “don’t be like us” bit—what exactly did she mean? That I’d turn into another flaky mess? Or that I should ditch family like they had?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping for backup. He just shrugged: “Mum’s right, love. We feed you, clothe you—the rest’s on you.” *On me*? Where were they in *my* life? Where was the pride when I aced exams? The support when I pulled all-nighters? Now this ultimatum. I might as well have been pre-cancelled from their lives.
My best mate, Lily, listened and said, “They’re just scared you’ll mooch off them forever. Prove them wrong.” Wrong? I’m already tutoring year sevens and saving for a laptop! But I’m sixteen—I can’t magically adult overnight. And I shouldn’t *have* to prove anything to parents who treat me like an invoice. I just wanted them there—for the scary bits, the hard bits. Instead, they’ve stamped me with a best-before date.
Now I’m stuck between storming out (renting a flat, getting a job, shoving my independence in their faces) and knowing it’s impossible—I’ve got A-levels, for heaven’s sake. Part of me wants to confront Mum, but what if she just says, “Don’t be dramatic”? Worst of all, I’ve started doubting myself. What if I *do* turn out like them? What if I’m just as hopeless?
I’ve decided their words won’t break me. I’ll study, work, build a future—not for them, but *me*. I don’t want to be like my parents—not because they’re “irresponsible,” but because I believe family sticks together, no expiry dates. When I have kids, I’ll never say, “Eighteen? Off you pop.” I’ll be there—whether they’re eighteen or forty—because family isn’t a current account that closes at midnight.
For now, I’m just weathering the sting. I bought trainers on my savings—not the fancy ones, but they’ll do. I jog, blast my playlist, and think: *I’ve got this*. Not to prove anything to Mum and Dad, just to myself. But deep down, it still hurts. Maybe one day they’ll realize what they threw away. And I’ll find my real family—the kind built on love, not spreadsheets.
