Parents and Their ‘Support’
“Until you turn eighteen, I’ll give you money—just enough for food and clothes, nothing more. After that, you’re on your own, Emily. I don’t know how your life will turn out, but I don’t want you to end up like your father and me,” my mother, Margaret, declared with a look that suggested she was doing me some grand favour. I stood there, thunderstruck, unable to believe these words were coming from the woman who raised me. So, after my birthday, I’m suddenly a stranger? And what does “like them” even mean? I never wanted to be like my parents in the first place—they’ve forgotten what it means to be a family. But those 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, William, live their own lives, and I live mine. They aren’t bad people, just… unreliable. Dad drifts between jobs, spending most days in the shed with his mates. Mum’s always busy—selling crafts at the market, gossiping with the neighbours. I’ve learned to fend for myself: cooking, cleaning, earning top marks to get into university. But I never thought they’d outright say I’d be on my own after eighteen.
It started last week when I asked Mum for new trainers. Mine were falling apart, and with the school athletics meet coming up, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. She looked at me like I was begging and snapped, “Emily, you’re old enough to earn your own money. I already give you enough for food.” Enough? A measly twenty quid a week that barely covers bus fare and a sandwich! I tried explaining trainers weren’t a luxury, but she cut me off: “Until eighteen, I’ll help. After that, figure it out. We’re not your personal bank.” I nearly choked on the hurt. Not a bank? Then what—parents who put an expiry date on care?
I locked myself in my room and cried half the night. Not about the trainers, but the ice in her voice. I’ve never been a burden—never begged for designer clothes like my classmates, never complained. I dreamed of university, a job, independence. But I thought I had a family who’d stand by me if I stumbled. Now what? Mum’s made it clear: after eighteen, I’m on my own. And that “don’t end up like us”—what did she mean? That I’d be as careless as them? Or that I should cut ties like they did?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping he’d take my side. He just shrugged. “Em, your mum’s right. We feed you, clothe you—the rest is up to you.” Up to me? Where are they in my life? Where’s the pride when I bring home awards? They never even ask how my day was, and now this ultimatum. It’s like they’ve already erased me.
My best friend listened and said, “Emily, they’re just scared you’ll rely on them. Prove them wrong.” Wrong? I’m already trying—studying, tutoring, saving for a laptop. But I’m sixteen. I can’t magically fix everything overnight. And I shouldn’t have to prove myself to parents who see me as a liability. I just want them there—for when I’m scared, or lost. Instead, they’ve stamped me with an expiry date.
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to leave now—rent a flat, find work, show them I’ll manage. But I’ve got GCSEs, A-levels, I can’t just walk away. Another part wants to explain how much this hurts, but I know Mum will just say, “Don’t be dramatic.” The worst part? I’ve started doubting myself. What if I do become like them? What if I fail, and my life’s just as empty?
I’ve decided not to let their words break me. I’ll study, work, build my future—for me, not them. Not because they’re “unsuitable,” but because I believe in family—real family, one that doesn’t clock out. When I have kids, I’ll never say, “You’re on your own at eighteen.” I’ll be there at thirty, forty, whenever they need me. Because family isn’t a bank with opening hours.
For now, I’m just surviving their words. I bought trainers with my savings—not the ones I wanted, but they’ll do. On my morning run, headphones in, I tell myself: I’ll be okay. Not to prove anything to Mum and Dad, but to prove it to me. Still, deep down, it aches. I hope one day they realise what they’ve lost. And I’ll find my real family—the kind that’s chosen, not just born.
