**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.”* My mum, Victoria Thompson, said it like she was doing me some grand favour. I stood there, thunderstruck, unable to believe my own mother would say such a thing. Was I just a stranger to them after my birthday? And what did she mean by *”like us”*? I never wanted to be like my parents anyway—people who’ve forgotten what family means. 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—Benjamin—live their own lives, and I live mine. They’re not cruel, just… irresponsible. Dad drifts between jobs, spending evenings in the shed with his mates. Mum’s always busy—sometimes selling at the market, other times gossiping with neighbours. I’ve learned to manage alone: cooking, cleaning, acing my GCSEs so I can get into uni. But I never thought they’d outright say I wouldn’t matter to them after eighteen.
It started last week when I asked Mum for money for new trainers. Mine were falling apart, and sports day was coming up—I didn’t want to embarrass myself. She looked at me like I was begging. *”Emily, you’re old enough to earn your own. I already give you enough for meals.”* Enough? Twenty quid a week barely covers bus fare and a sandwich at the canteen! 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 bank.”* I nearly choked. Not my bank? Then what are they? Parents are supposed to support you, not put an expiry date on caring.
I locked myself in my room and cried half the night. Not over the trainers—over how cold she’d been. I’ve never been a burden. No tantrums, no designer demands like my classmates. I dreamed of uni, a job, independence. But I thought I’d always have family to fall back on. Now what? Mum’s made it clear: after eighteen, I’m alone. And that *”don’t end up like us”*—what did she mean? That I’d be as feckless as them? Or that I should forget about family like they have?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping he’d take my side. He just shrugged. *”Your mum’s right, love. We feed you, clothe you—the rest is up to you.”* Up to me? Where’s *their* place in my life? Where’s their pride when I bring home awards? They don’t even ask how my day was, and now this ultimatum. Feels like I’ve been crossed off early.
My best friend listened, then said, *”They’re just scared you’ll leech off them. Prove you’re better.”* Better? I already am! I study, tutor kids, save 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 when things get hard. Instead, they’ve stamped me with a best-before 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 A-levels, uni applications—I can’t just quit. Another part wants to confront Mum, explain how much it hurts. But I dread her brushing me off with *”don’t be dramatic.”* Worst of all, I’ve started doubting myself. What if I *do* turn out like them? What if I fail, and my life’s just as hollow?
I won’t let their words break me. I’ll study, work, build my future—not for them, but *me*. I refuse to be like my parents, not because they’re *”failures”*, but because I believe in family that sticks together, no strings attached. If I ever have kids, I’ll never say *”You’re on your own at eighteen.”* I’ll be there—whether they’re twenty or forty. Because family isn’t a bank with opening hours.
For now, I’m just surviving. I bought trainers with my savings—not the ones I wanted, but they’ll do. On my jog, music blasting, 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 stings. Maybe one day they’ll realise what they’ve lost. Until then, I’ll find my real family—not by blood, but by heart.
**Lesson: Love shouldn’t come with a deadline.**
