**Thursday, 12th October**
Mum had that look again—the one that makes you feel like you’re being handed a favour rather than love. “Until you’re eighteen, I’ll give you money—enough for food and clothes, nothing more. After that, you’re on your own, Emily,” she said, arms crossed like she’d just laid down the law. I stood there, stunned, as if she’d slapped me. My own mother. Is that it? After my birthday, do I suddenly stop mattering? And what did she even mean by *”like us”*? I never wanted to be like my parents to begin with—two people who seem to have forgotten what family means. But hearing it out loud? That cut deeper than I expected.
I’m sixteen, and I’ve always known our family isn’t perfect. Mum and Dad—Margaret and James—live their lives, and I live mine. They’re not cruel, just… absent. Dad flits between odd jobs and tinkering in the shed with his mates. Mum’s always busy—sometimes at the market, other times gossiping with the neighbours. I’ve learned to manage on my own: cooking, cleaning, scraping by with top marks so I can get into uni. But I never thought they’d outright say it: once I’m eighteen, I’m on my own.
It started last week when I asked Mum for new trainers. Mine were falling apart, and with sports day coming up, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. She looked at me like I’d asked for a designer handbag. “Emily, you’re old enough to earn your own money. I already give you enough for food.” *Enough?* Twenty quid a week barely covers bus fare and a meal deal. I tried explaining trainers aren’t a luxury, but she cut me off: “We’re not a bank. You’ve got two years—after that, you’ll manage.” I nearly choked. Not a bank? Then what are they? Parents should be there to help, not put an expiry date on caring.
I locked myself in my room and cried for hours. Not about the trainers—about how cold she’d been. I’ve never asked for much. No fancy clothes, no begging for the latest iPhone like my classmates. I’ve dreamed of uni, a career, being independent. But I thought I had a family who’d stand by me, even if I stumbled. Now? Mum’s made it clear: after eighteen, I’m alone. And that *”don’t end up like us”* comment—what was that? That I’ll turn out just as unreliable? Or that I should forget about family, like they have?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping he’d soften the blow. He just shrugged. “Your mum’s right, love. We feed you, clothe you—the rest is up to you.” *Up to me?* Where do they fit into my life, then? Where’s their pride when I bring home awards? Their concern when I’m up all night revising? They barely ask how my day was, and now this ultimatum. It’s like they’ve already crossed me off the list.
My best mate, Sophie, listened and said, “They’re scared you’ll rely on them forever. Prove them wrong.” *Wrong how?* I’m already tutoring year nines, saving for a laptop, pulling all-nighters for exams. I’m sixteen—I can’t flip a switch and be an adult. And why should I have to prove anything to parents who see me as a burden? I just want to know they’ll be there if things go wrong. Instead, they’ve stamped me with a best-before date.
Part of me wants to leave now—rent a flat, find a job, show them I don’t need them. But I’ve got GCSEs, then A-levels. I can’t just walk away. Another part wants to make Mum understand how much this hurts, but I know she’ll just say I’m “overreacting.” Worst of all, I’ve started doubting myself. What if I do turn out like them? What if I fail, and my life ends up just as lonely?
I won’t let their words break me. I’ll study, work, build a future—not for them, but for me. I don’t want to be like my parents, not because they’re “failures,” but because I believe family should stick together, no conditions. When I have kids, I’ll never say, *”You’re eighteen—figure it out.”* I’ll be there, even when they’re thirty, even if they mess up. Because family isn’t a transaction.
For now, I’m just trying to swallow it. I bought cheap trainers with my savings—not the ones I wanted, but they’ll do. On my runs, I blast music and tell myself: *I’ll be fine.* Not to prove anything to them, but to prove it to me. Still, there’s an ache I can’t shake. Maybe one day they’ll realise what they lost. And I’ll find people who’ll be my real family—not by blood, but by choice.
