“Parents and Their ‘Support’
‘Until you’re eighteen, I’ll give you money—just enough for food and clothes, nothing fancy. After that, you’re on your own, Holly,’ Mum said with this look, like she was doing me some massive favour. I just stood there, completely gobsmacked. Is that it? After my birthday, I’m not their problem anymore? And what did she even mean by ‘like us’? I never wanted to be like my parents in the first place. They’ve forgotten what being a family even means. But hearing her say it out loud? It cut deeper than I ever expected.
I’m sixteen, and I’ve always known things weren’t perfect at home. Mum and Dad—Linda and Richard—live their own lives, and I live mine. They’re not bad people, just… not the most responsible. Dad’s always in and out of work, tinkering in the shed with his mates. Mum’s either at the market or gossiping with the neighbours. I’ve been looking after myself for years—cooking, cleaning, acing my GCSEs so I can get into uni. But I never thought they’d actually say it to my face: the second I turn eighteen, I’m on my own.
It all started last week when I asked Mum for money for new trainers. My old ones are wrecked, and there’s a cross-country race coming up. She looked at me like I was begging for cash and said, ‘You’re old enough to earn your own money, Holly. I already give you enough for food.’ Enough? Try twenty quid a week—barely covers bus fare and a meal deal. I tried explaining trainers aren’t exactly a luxury, but she cut me off: ‘We’re not your personal bank, love. After eighteen, you’re flying solo.’ I nearly choked. Not a bank? Then what are they? Parents are supposed to have your back, not slap an expiry date on their support.
I locked myself in my room and cried half the night—not about the stupid trainers, but how cold she sounded. I’ve never been a burden. Never asked for designer stuff like my mates, never moaned. I’ve got plans—uni, a job, my own place. But I always thought my family would be there if I stumbled. Now? Mum’s made it clear: after eighteen, I’m just some random flatmate. And that ‘don’t end up like us’ bit—what was that? Am I supposed to be ashamed of them? Or is she warning me I’ll fail too?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping he’d at least soften it. He just shrugged. ‘Your mum’s right, Hol. We feed you, clothe you, but after that—it’s your life.’ My life? Where’s theirs in any of it? Where were they when I was pulling all-nighters for mocks? Do they even care about my awards? They don’t ask how my day is, and now this ultimatum. Feels like they’ve already crossed me off the family list.
My best mate, Sophie, listened and said, ‘They’re just scared you’ll rely on them forever. Prove them wrong.’ Wrong? I already am! I tutor kids, save up for a laptop, nail my grades. But I’m sixteen—I can’t magic up adulthood overnight. And why should I have to prove anything to parents who see me as a bill they can’t wait to stop paying? I just want to know they’ll be there if things get rough. Instead, they’ve handed me a countdown.
Now I’m torn—part of me wants to bail now, rent a flat, show them I don’t need them. But I’ve got A-levels, uni applications—I can’t just drop everything. The other part wants to make Mum understand how much it hurt, but I know she’ll just say I’m ‘overreacting.’ Worst part? I’ve started doubting myself. What if I do turn out like them? What if I crash and burn?
I’ve decided their words won’t break me. I’ll keep grinding—for me, not them. I don’t want to be like my parents, not because they’re ‘failures,’ but because I believe family should stick together, no expiration dates. If I ever have kids, I’ll never tell them, ‘You’re on your own at eighteen.’ I’ll be there—whether they’re twenty or forty—because family isn’t a direct debit you cancel.
For now, I’m just dealing. Bought those trainers with my own savings—not the cool ones, but they’ll do. I go running, blast my music, and remind myself: I’ve got this. Not to prove anything to them, but to me. But deep down? It still stings. Maybe one day they’ll realise what they lost. And I’ll find my real family—the ones who choose me, not just share my surname.”
