**Diary Entry**
*When are you moving out, Marianne?*
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A teacup in her hands, her voice laced with indifference, almost disdain.
*Moving out?* Marianne turned slowly from the laptop warming her knees. *Mum, I live here. I work.*
*Work?* Mums lips twisted into a crooked smile. *Right. Sitting on the internet. Writing your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads that?*
Marianne snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. This wasnt the first time her work was dismissed as *not real*, but it still stung like a slap.
She tried. Freelancing wasnt easyendless edits, deadlines, writing through the night, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
*I have steady clients,* she exhaled. *And I earn money. I pay bills, I*
*No ones demanding anything,* Mum cut her off with a wave. *Its just the situation, love.*
*Youre grown up, you understand. Tom and Emily want to move in with the kids. Two of them, Marianne. Theyre cramped in that one-bed flat, you know.*
*And what about me?* The words burst out before she could stop them. *Am I not family?*
*Youre on your own, love. Youve always been independent. They have children. A family. Youre smartyoull figure it out. Maybe even find a proper job.*
*People work nine to five, by the way. Not hunched over a laptop all night.*
Marianne stayed silent. A lump rose in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never understood what she did.
Not once had she asked, *What do you write? Where can I read it?*
Only pitying looks, passive-aggressive remarks like, *Youd be better off as a cashier.*
*On your own.* The words rang in her ears like a verdict. A reason to erase her from the flat, from their lives, from the family.
When Dad came home, the conversation resumed. Now it was him, Mum, and herlike some twisted tribunal.
*Tom and his wife have done well for themselves,* Dad began, sinking into his armchair. *Both working, two kids.*
*You well, youre not lazy, Ill give you that. But its time to take life seriously.*
*Dad, I live here. Im not freeloading! I earn moneyyes, from home, yes, in pyjamasbut I pay my way!*
*Youre missing the point,* he interrupted. *Its not about money. Its about need.*
*Tom has two kids, do you hear? The youngest is only eighteen months. They need this flat. Its hard for them.*
*And its easy for me?!* she nearly shouted. *Do you think I have no struggles?!*
*Im 28. No support, no husband, no kids. Just workwhich you refuse to acknowledge!*
They exchanged a glance, as if she were exhausting. As if her pain were just melodrama.
*Youve always been strong,* Mum sighed, shaking her head. *Youll manage. But Tom and Emilythey cant even think*
*And when do I get to think?* The words stayed trapped in her mind. She was too tired to say them aloud.
*Where am I supposed to go?* she rasped. *Im not asking for money. Just a corner. Just understanding.*
*Youll find a rental,* Mum mumbled. *Everyone does it these days. Young people all live in shared flats. And since you dont work officially, youre not tied down.*
*Are you even hearing yourselves?!*
She barely remembered the rest of that evening. Only sitting on the windowsill later, watching the rain streak the glass like silent tears.
The next morning, noise from the hallway woke her. Suitcases. Voices. Bustle.
*Marianne, were just storing Toms things in the cupboard for now,* Mum said without looking at her. *Theyre moving in, you understand.*
She understood. Had understood from the start. But living with it was unbearable.
*Marianne, its settled.* Mums tone was casual, like passing the salt at dinner. *Youre a grown woman. Time to stand on your own feet.*
*Temporarily? Right. Until Toms kids have kids.*
*There you go again with the dramatics.* Mum rolled her eyes. *Always so defensive.*
*We care about you. But family isnt just you.*
*Of course not,* Marianne laughed bitterly. *Everything for Tom. Nothing for me. Im just excess baggage.*
*Dont be ridiculous,* Dad interjected from the doorway. *Toms our son. Youre strong. Youll manage.*
*I dont want to be strong. I just want to matter.*
The next day, she went to view a room.
Twenty minutes from home, the world shifted: a grimy stairwell, rusted doors, a neighbour who muttered about *youth these days.*
The place was a museum of neglectpeeling rose-print wallpaper, a threadbare rug on the wall, a wobbling stool.
The landlord eyed her suspiciously. *Where do you work?*
*Freelance. I write articles. Online.*
*Online?* She frowned. *Whats that?*
*On a computer. I have regular clients.*
*So you sit at home?* The woman sniffed. *No parties. Laundry once a week. Electricitys expensive.*
*Got it,* Marianne nodded, feeling something inside her collapse.
Home sweet home.
That evening, Mum texted a photo: *Look! We set up the crib. Isnt it lovely?*
Lovely.
*So, whats your plan?* Dad asked over dinner. Shed come to collect the last of her thingstrainers, a tripod, the blanket Grandad gave her.
*Renting a room for now,* she said flatly. *Might move further later.*
*Good,* he nodded. *And find a real job. With people. A set schedule.*
*Dad,* she exhaled. *My clients are worldwide. I run a blog for a company turning over millions.*
*I write pieces read by thousands daily. But you refuse to see it.*
*How do we even know its real?* Dad shrugged. *Toms job is clear. Payslips, taxes, a desk. Yours is foggy. So you write ten articles. Then what?*
*Then I live,* she said quietly. *Without you. Thanks for teaching me not to expect helpor respect.*
He started to reply, but she was already at the door, keys in her pocket.
*Marianne,* his voice followed her. *We didnt mean harm.*
She paused on the threshold.
*I know. You just didnt mean anything at all.*
The new room smelled of mothballs. The curtains were grey-beige, the walls a dismal green.
Sitting on the bed, knees hugged to her chest, she thought about how easily theyd erased her.
No fight. No fanfare. Just *move out. Youre strong. Youre alone, so you dont count.*
Maybe it was for the best. But her chest felt hollow.
*You didnt break,* she whispered into the dark. *So youve already won.*
Days blurred. She woke before the alarm, staring at the ceiling. The noise next door, the muttering neighbour, the musty carpetit all pressed down like a weight.
But worse was knowing home wasnt hers anymore. That her parents saw her as dead weight.
She worked relentlesslyghostwriting, editing, taking extra gigs. Money came. Clients praised her. She felt nothing.
Then came the text from Tom:
*When are you transferring the lease? The flats ours now. Lets keep it clean.*
She froze.
*Clean? You kicked me out. Now you want my name off the papers?*
His reply was instant: *Dont overreact. Just tying loose ends. You said youre leaving.*
*Enjoy it, Tom,* she muttered. *Just dont expect thanks. Seems your family forgot the word.*
One weekend, she sat in a park with coffee, laptop open but untouched. Memories surfaceddreaming of working in publishing, pouring herself into her craft, the sleepless nights.
Not once had her parents said, *Were proud.*
To them, Tom was the golden childfamily man, provider. She was the *unlucky* spinster.
Disposable.
Aunt Val called that eveningMums sister, the only one with sense.
*Love, I just heard Im ashamed of them.*
*Its fine.*
*No, its not! Youre brilliant. Holding
