**Diary Entry: Kicked Out – A Family Drama**
Growing up is realising that family can become the most fragile part of your life. That thought haunted me every evening as I returned to my cramped studio on the outskirts of a quiet town in Yorkshire. My name is Emily. At 23, I’d just earned my degree in marketing. All those years, I’d lived in my grandfather’s old flat, inherited by Mum after he passed. The only bills were utilities, which I covered with my earnings from waitressing at the *Rose & Crown*, just three streets away.
Balancing studies and work was exhausting. I’d come home drained, only to cram lectures or finish essays late into the night. But I managed—that’s what responsible adults do.
The celebratory dinner at my parents’ house for my graduation started like a dream. Mum had outdone herself with homemade pies and salads. My younger sister, Sophie—a giggly 16-year-old—teased that she’d miss my help with her maths homework. My aunt and uncle had come, and toasts were made to my success. But when the guests left, the mood shifted. Mum cleared her throat in *that* tone—the one that always meant trouble. My stomach twisted.
“Emily, love,” she began coolly, “now you’ve got your degree, we need to talk about the flat.”
“What about it?” I asked, my heart dropping.
“If you want to stay, you’ll need to pay rent.”
I froze, as if doused in icy water. Dad stared at his plate, silent, while Sophie glued her eyes to her phone—though I caught her sneaking glances.
“Rent? What are the terms?” I forced out.
“Below market rate—family discount,” Mum said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The amount was still more than my part-time wages could handle.
“Right,” I replied. What else was there to say?
They weren’t wrong: I wasn’t a student anymore. Time to fend for myself.
The next year was a whirlwind of work, bills, and adjusting. I landed a junior manager role at an ad agency. The pay was modest, but it covered the rent my parents demanded, utilities, and just enough to scrape by. Every month, I transferred the money, sometimes squeezing in extra for the electric. I wanted to prove I was responsible—that I could handle it.
Sophie visited rarely, usually to borrow clothes or beg for help with an essay. Her visits grew more self-serving. The golden child, spoiled by our parents, she’d never had to work like I did. Soon, she started dating Jack, an older bloke who worked at a garage. When she brought him round, he struck me as cocky. Then came the call that upended everything.
“Emily, get here *now*,” Mum’s voice trembled.
The house was heavy with silence. Mum and Dad sat stiffly on the sofa.
“Sit down,” Dad rasped. He looked years older.
“Sophie’s pregnant,” Mum blurted.
I went still. My 17-year-old sister was having a baby with a mechanic.
“There’s more,” Mum added. “Sophie and Jack need a place. They’re taking your flat.”
The room spun. I gripped the armchair to stay upright.
“So… I have to move out?” My voice shook.
“Yes,” Mum said flatly. “They need space. It’s only logical, isn’t it?”
I looked at Sophie. She studied her nails, indifferent.
“I’ll need time to find somewhere,” I choked out.
“A week’s enough,” Mum cut in. “And Emily—you’ll keep paying rent.”
I laughed—sharp, bitter. I thought it was a joke. Their faces said otherwise.
“You want me to move out *and* pay for a flat I don’t live in?” My words tore into a shout.
“It’s your duty as the eldest,” Dad said sternly. “Family helps family.”
“Duty?” I shot up, hands trembling. “If they’re grown enough to have a kid, they can support themselves!”
“You’re selfish!” Sophie wailed, tears welling. “You don’t care about my baby!”
“*Selfish?*” I turned to Mum. “I’ve paid rent since my first year! Now you want me to bankroll them? Not a penny!”
I stormed out to shouts of “ungrateful” and “selfish brat.” The door slammed like a full stop on our relationship.
That night, I packed my life into boxes, tears streaming. Thankfully, I had savings—scraped together from the café. The next day, I rented a dingy flat across town. Smaller kitchen, peeling wallpaper, a longer commute. But it was *mine*.
I took only what I’d bought: books, clothes, dishes, my coffee maker (a treat after my first bonus), my laptop, my bed. Two days later, I dropped the keys at my parents’ doorstep. No note—words failed me.
A week on, Mum called, furious:
“What have you *done*? The flat’s empty!”
“I took what was mine,” I said calmly. “Sophie and Jack can do the same.”
The rant that followed made me hang up.
I buried myself in work. My boss, Mrs. Carter, noticed my drive and gave me bigger projects. Soon, I was promoted, then got a raise. I opened a savings account for a mortgage deposit.
Through friends, I heard updates. Sophie had the baby. She and Jack lived in *my* flat while my parents covered their bills. Then came her message:
*”Hey sis! Heard about your promotion—congrats! Come meet your nephew!”*
Attached was a shopping list: designer pram, posh baby clothes, toys. I replied:
*”Do you work?”*
*”Mum and Dad handle everything. Jack and I are busy with the baby,”* she wrote. Then added: *”We want more kids. They’ll pay for that too. Oh, and a big wedding!”*
I read it three times, disgusted. I forwarded it to Mum without comment.
A month later, Aunt Maggie called:
“Emily, your parents kicked Sophie out! They found out how she mocked them behind their backs, how she planned to leech off them. They won’t give her another penny.”
Soon, Sophie sobbed down the phone:
“Emily, can we stay with you? We’ve got nowhere!”
“No,” I said firmly.
“You’re just like Mum and Dad! Selfish! We’re *family*!”
“Family doesn’t use family,” I said, and hung up.
Sophie and Jack moved in with *his* parents. His no-nonsense mother made them clean, cook, and care for the baby. Sophie complained, but what choice did she have?
On my birthday, I hosted friends in my new two-bedroom flat—bought with my savings. A courier arrived with a parcel from my parents: a silver photo frame I’d once admired in a shop. Inside was a card: *”We miss you. When you’re ready, we’d like to talk.”* Both had signed it.
I placed the frame on my desk, the card on the fridge. They’re reminders—of hurt and hope. Friends ask if I’m okay, but I don’t have an answer. How do you explain that a frame can be both an olive branch and a scar?
The pain’s still there, but I’m building my life. My career’s thriving, I lead a team now. I’m planning a holiday and thinking of getting a dog. Maybe Sophie’s learning responsibility. As for my parents? I’m not ready to call. But the frame stays on my desk—proof that forgiveness *might* be possible. Someday.
