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🛑 My name is Maria. I’m 33. I live in Coventry. I rent a room. Not a flat — a room. In a house with two strangers who, like me, can’t afford their own place. I work as a cleaner for a company called Broom and Bucket. The job runs from 6am to 11pm. I do evening shifts. From 2 to 10. Sometimes till 11 if the place is really dirty. About £12 an hour. After tax — around £1,500 a month. Sounds okay? It’s not. Here are the expenses. Room rent: £550 (includes bills but no internet) Council tax: £90 (split with housemates, but they never pay on time) Internet + phone: £55 Bus to work and back: £65 (night fares cost more) Food: £250 (I barely eat meat because it’s too expensive) Subscriptions: £15 (Amazon Prime Video — the only thing I have, and even that I share with a friend) Clothes and shoes: £20 (charity shops, everything) Medication: £10 (headache and allergy tablets) Unexpected: £30 Left: £415. Feels like £415 is money. It’s not. Because £415 is what covers everything I forgot. And everything that will happen tomorrow. And tomorrow always happens. I’ve been alone for three years. Since I split up with my husband Nick. He was normal. Didn’t hit me. Didn’t shout. Just stopped noticing me. I became like a fridge — it’s there, but you don’t see it. I left on my own. Since then — I’m alone. In the evening I come home at 10:30, if everything goes well. If it’s a heavy shift — 11:30. The house is old. Doors creak. My housemates are lads who don’t care. They blast music at 2am. I don’t complain — I’m scared they’ll hate me. And I’ve got nowhere else to go. I go into my room. 9 square metres. Bed, wardrobe, desk. On the desk — a 2017 laptop that takes five minutes to load. I boil the kettle. Drink tea without sugar. Stare at the wall. And think. I think about being 33. No savings. If the laptop breaks — I can’t replace it. If I get ill and miss three days — I can’t pay rent. If a housemate says I walk too loud — the landlord will just replace me. I’m scared. No
