**Parents and Their ‘Support’**
*”Until you turn eighteen, I’ll give you money—small amounts, for food, clothes, just enough. After that, you’re on your own, Emily. I don’t know how your life will turn out, but I don’t want you ending up like me and your father,”* Mum said, as if she were doing me some grand favour. I stood there, stunned, hardly believing my own mother could say such a thing. Was I just a stranger to them after my birthday? And what did she even mean by *”like them”*? I never wanted to be like my parents in the first place—who seemed to have forgotten what family even was. But her words cut so deep, I still haven’t recovered.
I’m sixteen, and I’ve always known things weren’t perfect between us. Mum and Dad—James—live their own lives, and I live mine. They’re not bad people, just… unreliable. Dad flits between jobs, spending most of his time in the shed with his mates. Mum’s always busy—sometimes helping at the market, other times gossiping with the neighbours. I’ve learned to manage on my own: cooking, cleaning, studying hard to get into uni. But I never imagined they’d say it outright—that after eighteen, I’d be on my own.
It started last week when I asked Mum 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 for spare change and said, *”Emily, you’re old enough to earn your own. I already give you enough for food.”* Enough? A few quid a week barely covers the bus fare and a sandwich at the canteen! I tried explaining that trainers weren’t some luxury, but she cut me off: *”I’ll help till you’re eighteen—after that, you’re on your own. We’re not a bank.”* I nearly choked on the unfairness. Not a bank? Then what were they? Parents should 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 sounded. I’ve never been a burden. I don’t ask for designer clothes or gadgets like my classmates. I just wanted to study, get a job, be independent—but with the safety net of family. Now, it’s gone. Mum made it clear: after eighteen, I’m alone. And that *”don’t end up like us”*—what did she mean? That I’d be just as irresponsible? Or that I should forget about family the way they have?
I tried talking to Dad, hoping he’d take my side. He just shrugged. *”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 A’s? Their concern when I’m up all night revising? It’s like they’ve already written me off, like I’m some temporary responsibility.
My best friend listened and said, *”Maybe they’re scared you’ll depend 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 anything to parents who treat me like a chore. I just wanted them to be there if I ever needed them. Instead, they’ve given me a deadline.
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to leave—rent a flat, find work, show them I don’t need them. But that’s not realistic yet. I’ve got GCSEs, then A-levels. Another part wants to explain how much this hurts, but I’m terrified Mum will just say I’m *”being dramatic.”* Worse—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 keep working, building 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 still believe in family. When I have kids, I’ll never say, *”You’re on your own at eighteen.”* I’ll be there, no matter what. Because family isn’t a transaction.
For now, I’m just getting through it. I bought trainers with my savings—not the ones I wanted, but they’ll do. I go running, blast music, and tell myself: *I’ll be okay.* Not to prove anything to Mum and Dad, but to prove it to myself. Still, somewhere deep down, it aches. Maybe one day they’ll realise what they’ve lost. And I’ll find people who’ll be my real family—not by blood, but by choice.
