**Kicked Out: A Family Drama**
Growing up is realising that family can be the most fragile part of your life—a thought that haunted me every evening as I trudged back to my tiny studio flat on the outskirts of a dreary northern town. My name’s Sophie. At 23, I’d just graduated with a marketing degree after years of living in my grandad’s old flat, inherited by my mum when he passed. The only bill was utilities, which I covered by waitressing at a café called *The Crown*, three streets away.
Juggling work and study was exhausting. I’d come home knackered, only to cram for exams or finish essays at 2 a.m. But I managed—because that’s what responsible adults do.
The celebratory dinner at my parents’ house started like a fairy tale. Mum had gone all out with homemade pies and salads. My younger sister, Ellie—a bubbly 16-year-old—joked she’d miss my last-minute maths help. Auntie and Uncle dropped by, toasting my success. But once the guests left, the mood shifted. Mum cleared her throat with *that* tone—the one that signals an oncoming storm. My stomach dropped.
“Sophie, love,” she said coolly, “now you’ve got your degree, we need to talk about the flat.”
“What about it?” I asked, my heart plummeting.
“If you want to keep living there, you’ll need to pay rent.”
I froze, as if doused in ice water. Dad stared at his plate, silent. Ellie buried herself in her phone, but I caught her glancing at me.
“Rent? What’s the rate?” I forced out.
“Below market value—family discount,” Mum smiled, but her eyes were cold. The sum was still impossible on my waitress wages.
“Right,” I said. What else *could* I say?
They weren’t wrong—I was an adult now, expected to fend for myself.
The next year was a blur of work, bills, and adjusting. I landed a junior marketing gig—decent pay, but just enough for Mum’s rent, utilities, and the odd takeaway. Every month, I transferred the money, sometimes chucking in extra for the electric. I wanted to prove I could handle it.
Ellie rarely visited, usually just to nick my clothes or beg for essay help. Her trips grew more transactional. The golden child, she’d never had to work a day in her life. Then she started dating Jake, an older bloke who worked at a garage. When she brought him round, he struck me as cocky. Then came the phone call that flipped my world upside down.
“Sophie, get here now,” Mum’s voice trembled.
At their house, silence hung thick. Mum and Dad sat stiff as statues.
“Sit down,” Dad rasped. He looked years older.
“Ellie’s pregnant,” Mum blurted.
I blinked, trying to process. My 17-year-old sister was having a baby with a mechanic.
“And there’s more,” Mum added. “Ellie and Jake need a place. They’re moving into *your* flat.”
The room spun. I clutched the armchair to stay upright.
“So… I have to leave?” My voice shook.
“Yes,” Mum said matter-of-factly. “They need space. It’s only logical, isn’t it?”
I looked at Ellie. She was examining her nails like this was someone else’s problem.
“I’ll need time to find somewhere,” I managed.
“A week’s enough,” Mum cut in. “And Sophie—you’ll keep paying rent.”
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. Surely a joke? Their faces said otherwise.
“You want me to move out *and* pay for a flat I’m not in?” My voice cracked.
“It’s your duty as the eldest,” Dad said sternly. “Family helps family.”
“*Duty*?” I shot up, hands shaking. “They’re adults! Let them sort themselves out!”
“You’re so selfish!” Ellie wailed, tears welling. “You don’t care about my baby!”
“*Selfish*? I’ve paid rent since uni! And now you want me to bankroll *them*? Not a *penny*!”
I stormed out to shouts of “ungrateful” and “heartless.” The door slammed shut like a full stop on our relationship.
That night, I packed my life into boxes, tears streaming. Thankfully, I’d squirrelled away savings from the café. The next day, I rented a grim little flat across town—cracked tiles, a dodgy boiler, a commute from hell. But it was *mine*.
I took only what I’d bought: books, clothes, my laptop, even the coffee machine I’d treated myself to after a bonus. Two days later, I slid the keys under Mum’s door. No note—words failed me.
A week on, Mum rang, furious:
“What have you done? The flat’s empty!”
“I took what was *mine*,” I said calmly. “Ellie and Jake can buy their own.”
The tirade that followed had me hanging up mid-rant.
Life moved on. I threw myself into work, and my boss, Margaret, noticed. Soon, I led projects, got promoted, saved for a deposit. Through the grapevine, I heard Ellie had the baby. Her and Jake lived rent-free in *my* old flat while Mum and Dad footed their bills. Then came Ellie’s text:
*“Hey sis! Heard about the promotion—nice one! Come meet your nephew xx”*
Attached was a shopping list: designer pram, fancy babygros, pricey toys. I replied:
*“Got a job yet?”*
*“Mum and Dad cover everything,”* she wrote. *“We’re busy with the baby.”* Then: *“We want more kids. They’ll pay for that too. And a big wedding!”*
I read it three times, disgusted. Didn’t reply—just forwarded it to Mum.
A month later, Auntie Carol called:
“Your parents kicked Ellie out! Found out she was slagging them off, planning to milk them dry. Said they’re done bankrolling her.”
Soon, Ellie rang sobbing:
“Sophie, 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.
Ellie and Jake moved in with his parents—his no-nonsense mum put them to work cooking and baby-wrangling. Ellie moaned, but tough luck.
On my birthday, friends crowded my new two-bed flat (bought with *my* savings). A courier arrived with a parcel—a silver photo frame I’d once admired, from Mum and Dad. The card read: *“We miss you. When you’re ready, let’s talk.”*
I put the frame on my desk, the card on the fridge. They’re reminders—of hurt, but also hope. Friends ask if I’m okay. Truth is, I don’t know. How do you explain that a frame is both an olive branch and a scar?
The ache’s still there, but I’m building my life. Work’s thriving, I’m eyeing holidays, maybe a rescue dog. Ellie might learn responsibility someday. As for Mum and Dad? I’m not ready to call. But the frame sits there—proof that forgiveness could happen.
Eventually.