**Kicked Out: A Family Drama**
Growing up is the moment you realise family can be the most fragile thing in your life. That thought gnawed at me every evening as I trudged back to my tiny studio flat on the outskirts of Grimsby. My name is Emily. At 23, I’d just graduated with a marketing degree. During my studies, I’d lived in my late grandad’s old flat, inherited by Mum after he passed. The only bill was utilities—which I covered by waitressing at the *North Star Café*, three streets away.
Juggling work and uni was exhausting. I’d drag myself home, dead on my feet, only to cram lectures or write essays until midnight. But I managed—because that’s what responsible adults do.
My graduation dinner at my parents’ house started like a fairy tale. Mum went all out, laying out homemade pies and salads. My little sister, Poppy, a giggly 16-year-old, teased that she’d miss my last-minute algebra help. Auntie Margaret and Uncle Geoff dropped by, and everyone toasted my success. But once the guests left, the mood shifted. Mum cleared her throat in that dreaded *I’m-about-to-drop-a-bombshell* way. My stomach sank.
“Emily, love,” she began, icy sweet, “now that you’ve got your degree, we need to talk about the flat.”
“What about it?” My heart plummeted.
“If you want to stay there, you’ll need to start paying rent.”
I froze, as if doused in ice water. Dad stared silently at his plate, and Poppy pretended to scroll through her phone, though I caught her stealing glances.
“Rent? What’s the rate?” I choked out.
“Below market value—family discount.” Mum smiled, but her eyes were cold. The amount was still impossible on my waitress wages.
“Right,” I said, because what else was there to say?
They were correct—I wasn’t a student anymore. Time to fend for myself.
The next year was a blur of spreadsheets, overtime, and adjusting to adulthood. I landed a junior marketing role at an ad agency. The pay was modest, but it covered Mum and Dad’s rent, bills, and just enough for groceries. Every month, I transferred the money, sometimes tossing in extra for the electric. I wanted to prove I was responsible.
Poppy visited occasionally—usually to borrow clothes or beg for help with essays. Her trips grew more transactional. The golden child, spoiled rotten, she’d never worked a day in her life. Then she started dating Jason, an older bloke who worked at a garage. When she brought him round, he had this cocky swagger. Then came the phone call that flipped my world upside down.
“Emily, come home. Now.” Mum’s voice trembled.
The house was tomb-quiet. Mum and Dad sat rigid on the sofa like stone statues.
“Sit,” Dad rasped. He looked years older.
“Poppy’s pregnant,” Mum blurted.
I gaped, my brain scrambling to process it. My 17-year-old sister was having a baby with a mechanic.
“And there’s more,” Mum added. “Poppy and Jason need somewhere to live. They’re taking your flat.”
The room spun. I gripped the armrest to keep from falling.
“So… I’m being evicted?” My voice shook.
“Yes,” Mum said, as if discussing the weather. “They need space. It’s only logical.”
I stared at Poppy. She examined her nails like this was someone else’s problem.
“I’ll need time to find a place,” I managed.
“A week should do,” Mum said. “Oh, and Emily—you’ll keep paying rent.”
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. Surely this was a joke. Their faces said otherwise.
“You want me to *move out* but still pay for the flat?” My voice cracked.
“It’s your duty as the eldest,” Dad said sternly. “Family helps family.”
“Duty?” I shot up, fists trembling. “They’re grown enough to have a baby—let them pay their own way!”
“You’re so selfish!” Poppy wailed, tears welling. “You don’t care about my baby!”
“Selfish?” I turned to Mum. “I’ve paid rent since I was 18! And now you want me to bankroll them? Not a chance!”
I stormed out to shouted cries of “ungrateful” and “selfish brat.” The door slammed shut like a full stop on our relationship.
That night, I packed my life into boxes, tears streaming. Thankfully, I had savings—tips squirrelled away from the café. By morning, I’d rented a grim little flat across town: peeling wallpaper, a shower that whimpered, and a commute from hell. But it was *mine*.
I took only what I’d bought—my coffee machine (a treat after my first bonus), my laptop, even my bed. Two days later, I slid the keys under my parents’ door. No note. Words failed me.
A week later, Mum rang, furious:
“What have you done? The flat’s empty!”
“I took what was mine,” I said flatly. “Poppy and Jason can buy their own stuff.”
The rant that followed was so vile I hung up.
I buried myself in work. My boss, Mrs. Whitaker, noticed my hustle and handed me bigger projects. Soon, I got a promotion, a pay bump, and a savings account for my own place.
Through the grapevine, I heard updates: Poppy had a son. She and Jason lived rent-free while my parents footed their bills. Then came her email:
*Hey sis! Heard about your promotion—congrats! Come meet your nephew!*
Attached was a shopping list: designer pram, posh baby clothes, luxury toys. I replied:
*Got a job yet?*
*Mum and Dad cover everything,* she wrote back. *Jason and I are busy with the baby.* Then, smugly: *We want more kids. They’ll pay for those too. Oh, and a fancy wedding!*
I read it three times, disgusted. I didn’t reply—just forwarded it to Mum.
A month later, Auntie Margaret called:
“Emily! Your parents kicked Poppy out! They heard her mocking them, bragging about bleeding them dry. Said they won’t give her another penny.”
Soon, Poppy was sobbing down the phone:
“Em, can we stay with you? We’ve got nowhere!”
“No,” I said.
“You’re just like them! Selfish cow! We’re *family!*”
“Family doesn’t exploit family,” I said, and hung up.
Poppy and Jason moved in with his parents. His no-nonsense mum put them to work—changing nappies, scrubbing floors. Poppy whined, but tough luck.
On my birthday, I hosted friends in my new two-bedroom flat—bought with my own money. Amid the laughter, a courier delivered a parcel from my parents: a silver photo frame I’d once admired. Inside was a card:
*We miss you. When you’re ready, we’d like to talk.*
I placed the frame on my desk, the card on the fridge. They were equal parts olive branch and wound. Friends asked if I was okay, but I didn’t know how to explain: the frame was hope *and* hurt.
The pain’s still there, but I’m building my life. My career’s thriving—I manage a team now. I’m eyeing holidays, maybe even adopting a dog. Poppy might learn responsibility one day.
As for my parents? I’m not ready to call. But the frame stays on my desk—proof that forgiveness *might* be possible.
Someday.