The House Where No One Awaits

22November2025
Dear Diary,

Today I finally understood why the old saying dont bite the hand that feeds you rings true in our family. It all began when Emma, my younger sister, turned up at Mum and Dads house in a small terraced home on the outskirts of Birmingham, hoping for a quick bite before heading back to her new flat in London.

Emma, love, theres nothing for you to leech off us, Keith shouted, loud enough for the whole street to hear. Youre grown, youve got your own head on your shoulders. Earn your own keep. Stop hanging on the old folks coattails.

Those words cut deeper than any kitchen knife.

***

Emma was scanning the freezer for milk, her hand hovering over a white carton with red lettering. Ah, there it is milk! Lets whip up some pancakes she muttered, reaching out. Before she could grasp it, the freezer door slammed shut, almost pinching her fingers. She pulled away just in time, eyes widening at the sudden push.

Mum, whats that about? she asked, bewildered. I just wanted milk for the pancakes, so we could all have a bite later.

June, who was nearby wiping the tiles with a damp cloth, shook her head. Were not after pancakes.

Emma sighed, Fine, Im hungry anyway. Evening is almost here. Mum brushed the floor with a rag, pretending to clean while subtly nudging Emma away from the freezer. Youre here to chat, not to raid the pantry, she chided, huffing. Dont expect us to feed you for free, dear.

Emma tried to hide her frustration, but the sting of being unwelcome in her own parents house was unmistakable. At twentytwo, fresh out of university with a modest trainee salary, she had just moved into a shared house and was gearing up for a better, betterpaid job. The cold shoulder from Mum only added to her woes.

When she tried to explain, Mum, I only wanted a little milk her voice was swallowed by the clatter of dishes.

Food doesnt grow out of thin air, Emma, Mum snapped. You have a job. You know the drill.

Just a splash of milk, a slice of cheese, Emma pleaded.

Its not hunger, its entitlement, Mum replied.

Keith entered the kitchen, his two grandchildren trailing behind, oblivious to the adult argument. The kids darted to the toy shelf, grabbed the cookie packet on the table, and snatched sweets from the endless jar. Emma watched, helpless, as they helped themselves while she wasnt even allowed a sip of milk for her pancakes.

Why cant I have any? she asked Keith, You and the kids are taking everything.

June rolled her eyes. Theyre just children, Emma. Do you expect them to foot the bill?

Mum smirked, and Keith laughed. Come on, sis, youll have to learn to stand on your own two feet. The kids can have their biscuits; you need to start pulling your weight.

You think Im lazy? Emma shot back, sarcastic. Im raising you two, and you cant even bring a kettle for tea?

Exactly, Keith replied, crushing the biscuit packet like a sack of potatoes. Thats the spirit! See how quickly you learn.

The atmosphere grew thicker. It was clear that Emma was no longer a beloved guest but a nuisance forced to keep a low profile.

Alright, Im off, she said, gathering her coat.

Dont take it personally, Emma, Keith called after her. Your parents may be harsh, but theyre trying to make you independent. Better late than never.

She left without a proper goodbye, the door closing behind her with a soft click that echoed the finality of the night.

For the next few weeks Emma didnt show up at Mum and Dads. She quit her deadend trainee role and landed a junior analyst position at a thriving firm in Canary Wharf, earning enough to rent a decent flat in Shoreditch. The first paycheck was a milestone she celebrated with a modest coffee at a local café, where Victoria, her new mentor, offered to buy her a drink.

Dont waste your time sulking, Emma, Victoria said, sliding a steaming latte across the table. Youre new here, the money will come. Lets have a proper chat over a cuppa.

Emma hesitated, then accepted. Thanks, Victoria, but Ill pay my own way.

Dont be daft, Victoria winked. Youre just starting out, its fine. Ive been there.

Those simple, unpretentious words made Emma feel seen, not like a burden. She left the café with a warm smile and a renewed belief that people could care without expecting anything in return.

Months later, with savings finally enough for a onebedroom flat, Emma decided to pay Mum and Dad a visit, bearing a hefty bag of groceries: apples, carrots, biscuits, cheese, and a slab of ham, all priced in pounds. She rang the doorbell, bright as ever.

Hey, Mum! she chirped. Wheres Dad?

Out taking the rubbish out, love, Mum called back. Good youre here. We thought youd forgotten about us.

Emma set the bag on the kitchen table. Just a little something to contribute to the family meal, she said, pulling out a chunk of cheddar. Fancy a snack?

Sure, dear, Mum replied.

Dad strolled back, arms laden with a bag of litter, and exchanged a few words with a neighbour before forgetting why hed left the house in the first place. He shuffled back, looking flustered.

Later, after a few sandwiches, Emma asked for a cup of tea. Do we have any tea? she inquired.

Dad frowned. Did you bring any?

No

Then have a bite, love. Teas not on the menu.

Emmas patience wore thin. Dad, I brought loads of stuff!

Eat whats there, he said, gesturing to the biscuits. Teas ours.

She felt the sting of being pushed aside again, just like at Mums house. It seemed the lesson about selfreliance was being handed out without a hint of gratitude.

Eventually Emma stood, gathered the remaining groceries, and said, I think Ill be off. No point staying where Im not wanted.

She left without a word of protest, her heart heavy but her resolve firmer.

A few weeks later, Keith rang, asking if he could swing by her flat after dropping his kids at the community pool in Hackney. Were a bit tired, the little ones are dragging, and its close by, he explained. Mind if we pop over?

Emma hesitated but didnt want to seem rude. Come on in, she said.

The kids burst into the kitchen, eyes wide, and before Emma could protest, Keith rummaged through her fridge, eyes gleaming.

Whats for lunch? he muttered, pulling out a sandwich.

Emma slammed the fridge door shut. Dont touch my food, Keith. Youre an adult; feed yourself.

Youre being selfish, he argued, confused.

Im not selfish. I bought this for myself, not for you, she replied, handing the children two bottles of yoghurt. Thats all youll have. Now please leave.

The children sipped their yoghurt, and Keith, stunned, backed out, muttering about how you never learn.

As I write this, I realise the pattern: our family has always used harsh words to push Emma towards independence, but the method has been more bruising than building. Ive watched her grow, stumble, and finally stand on her own two feet, all while I kept the same old jokes about living off the parents.

Lesson learned: teaching responsibility should come with encouragement, not with a closed fridge. Respecting each others effort is the real foundation of independence.