When are you moving out, Marina?
Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. A cup of tea in her hands, her voice indifferent, almost dismissive.
What do you mean moving out? Marina turned slowly from her laptop, which warmed her knees. Mum, I live here. I work.
Work? Mums lips twisted into a crooked smile. Oh yes. That thing you do online. Your little poems? Or articles? Who even reads those?
Marina snapped the laptop shut. Her chest tightened. Shed heard it beforethat her work wasnt *real*but each time felt like a slap.
She *did* work. Freelancing wasnt easylate edits, deadlines, clients who wanted everything yesterday and paid late.
I have regular clients, she exhaled. I make money. I pay my share
No ones asking anything of you, Mum waved her off. Its just the situation, love. Youre grown. You understand.
Tom and Ellie want to move in with the kids. Theyve got two, Marina. Theyre cramped in that tiny flat, you know that.
And what about me? Am I not family? Her voice cracked.
Youre *single*, Marina. Youve got no one. But theytheyve got children. Responsibilities. Youre smart, independent. Youll manage. Maybe even find a *proper* job, finally.
People work nine to five, you know. Not hunched over a laptop all night.
Marina stayed silent. A lump rose in her throat. Explaining was pointless. Mum had never understood what she did.
Never once asked, *What do you write? Where can I read it?*
Just the same tired digs. The pitying looks. *Youd be better off as a cashier.*
*Single.* The word rang in her ears like a sentence. A reason to erase her from the flat, from their lives.
When Dad came home, the conversation resumednow with him, Mum, and her, like some domestic tribunal.
Toms got a family to support, Dad began, sinking into his armchair. Two kids, a wife. They *need* this space.
And I dont? Her hands trembled. I pay my way! Im not some freeloader!
Its not about money, he cut in. Its about necessity. Toms youngest is barely a year old. Theyre struggling.
And Im *not*? Im twenty-eight, with no partner, no kidsjust a job you refuse to acknowledge!
They exchanged a glance. As if she were exhausting. As if her pain was just drama.
Youre a strong girl, Mum sighed. Youll cope. Tom and Ellietheyve got no choice.
*And I do?* she thought, but said nothing.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of boxes. Voices. Movement.
Toms bringing his things over, Mum said, not looking at her. You understand.
She did. Shed *always* understood.
The rented room smelled of mothballs. Grey-beige curtains, peeling wallpaper. The landladya woman with a smokers raspeyed her suspiciously.
Where dyou work?
Freelance. I write. Online.
Online? A sniff. Thats not proper, is it?
Marina clenched her jaw. *Proper.* The word followed her everywhere.
Weeks passed. She worked relentlesslyediting, drafting, chasing invoices. The money came. The clients praised her. But none of it dulled the ache.
Then, a message from Tom:
*When are you switching the tenancy? The flats ours now. Lets keep it clean.*
Her fingers froze. *Clean.* As if she were clutter to be swept away.
Aunt Val called one evening. Mums sisterthe only one who ever saw her.
Marina, love Im ashamed of them. Your work *is* real. The world runs on people like you now.
Marina cried thenquietly, for the first time in months.
She left. A one-way ticket, a single suitcase. A studio flat with park views.
No more pity. No more *proper*.
At her new job, her boss grinned. You write like youve lived it.
I have, she said.
Months later, Mum called. Tom wanted to sell the flat. *Hes so rude now,* she whined. *We miss you.*
Marina listened. And feltnothing.
No anger. No guilt. Just stillness.
She adopted a cat. Named him Biscuit. Bought a desk, pinned a world map to the wall.
Started a blog. Wrote for herselftruthfully, unapologetically.
Messages poured in: *This is me. Thank you.*
She dreamt of the old house sometimes. The smell of pancakes. The version of home that never was.
But shed wake, make coffee, and write:
*When family treats you like youre nothingbecome everything to yourself.*
And beneath it:
*Marina. Writer. Freelancer. Strong. Free. Alive.*
