**Diary Entry A New Chapter**
*”When are you planning to move out, Marina?”*
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, a mug of tea in her hands. Her voice was indifferent, almost dismissive.
*”Move out?”* Marina slowly turned from her laptop, which warmed her knees. *”Mum, I live here. I… I work.”*
*”Work?”* Mums lips twisted into a thin smile. *”Sitting online all day? Writing your little poems? Articles? Who even reads those?”*
Marina snapped the laptop shut. The familiar stingher work dismissed as *not real*hit harder each time. She *tried*. Freelancing wasnt easy: deadlines, clients who paid late, edits at 3 AM.
*”I have steady clients,”* she said flatly. *”I pay my shareutilities, food”*
*”No ones blaming you,”* Mum waved her off. *”But the situations changed. Tom and Olivia want to move in with the kids. Two children, Marina. Theyre cramped in that one-bed flat.”*
*”And what about me? Am I not family?”* Her voice shook.
*”Youre *single*, love. You can manage. Toms got responsibilitieschildren, a wife. Youre smart. Youll find somewhere.”*
That word*single*rang like a verdict. An excuse to erase her from the house, their lives.
When Dad came home, it resumed like a tribunal.
*”Toms done well for himself,”* Dad said, sinking into his armchair. *”Proper job, two kids. Youre clever, but its time to get serious.”*
*”I *am* serious. I earn my keep!”*
*”Its not about money. Its about *need*. Toms youngest is barely eighteen months. They need this house.”*
*”And I dont?”* Her throat burned. *”Im twenty-eight with no support, no partner, just work you refuse to acknowledge!”*
They exchanged glances*shes being dramatic again*.
*”Youre strong,”* Mum sighed. *”Youll cope. Tom cant just”*
*”When do *I* get to think?”* she wanted to scream. But the fight drained out of her.
—
The next morning, suitcases clattered in the hall. *”Toms things need storing,”* Mum said, not meeting her eyes. *”You understand.”*
Oh, she understood. Shed *always* understood.
The rented room was dismal: peeling floral wallpaper, a lopsided stool, a landlady who eyed her like a debtor. *”You work from home? Online? Whats that mean?”*
*”I write. For clients. Its a real job.”*
*”Hmph. No parties. Laundry once a week.”*
That night, Mum texted a photo: *”Look! Weve set up the babys cot. Sweet, isnt it?”*
*Sweet*.
—
Aunt ValMums sistercalled weeks later. *”Im ashamed of them. Your work *is* real. The world runs on people like you.”*
Marina cried then. One person, *one*, had seen her.
—
She moved to Bristol for a content editor role. The team loved her portfolio. No one questioned if her job was *proper*.
Her new studio had park views. Quiet. *Hers*. No demands, no guilt.
One evening, Mum left a voicemail: *”Tom wants to sell the house for a mortgage… We argued. Are you… well?”*
Marina listened. And felt *nothing*. No rage, no griefjust clarity. She owed them nothing.
—
Now, she adopts a rescue cat, *Biscuit*, and pins a world map to the wall: *”Places to see.”* Her blog blooms. Readers write, *”This is my story too.”*
She dreams of the old house sometimesMums lilac dressing gown, pancakes on Sundays. But she wakes without tears.
Today, she types:
*”When family says youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.”*
And signs:
*”Marina. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.”*
