For most of my life, I was merely a servant to my own children. It wasn’t until I turned 48 that I truly understood what it meant to live.
Before then, I had no idea life could taste different—that I didn’t have to spend hours at the stove, scrub floors on my knees, or wait for my husband’s approval because everything was spotless. I genuinely believed I was living correctly. That my role was to endure, to be convenient, and to endlessly sacrifice myself. How else could it be? That’s how my mother was raised, and her mother before her, and now—me.
My name is Margaret. I come from a small village in Yorkshire. I married at nineteen—what else was there to do when half the girls I knew left school not for university but for the registry office? I married Peter—a decent enough man, hardworking, without any major vices. We quickly had two children, a boy and a girl. And just like that, I stopped existing as a woman, as a person. I became a shadow. A servant. Someone obliged to give but owed nothing in return.
Peter soon grew tired of me. “You’ve done your duty by having children—now cook and keep quiet.” He never hit me, but he loved nights out with his mates. He’d come home late, snap at the noise of the children, and shoot me dark looks or even throw plates if supper wasn’t to his liking. He worked, yes. But home was just a pitstop—somewhere to eat, sleep, and leave again. The house, the children, the bills—it all fell on me.
When he was forty-two, his heart gave out. He died right there at a friend’s table. Did I cry? Yes, but from fear, from uncertainty, from being left alone—not from grief. My real grief was for the life I’d never had.
After he passed, I tried dating again for a while. But all I found were more men like him—demanding, entitled, as though a woman had no soul, only duties. So I stopped trying.
The children grew up and left for university. We stayed in touch, but just barely. Then, one day, my old friend Beatrice—who, unlike me, had seen the world—reappeared. She said, “Listen, Margaret, don’t you think you’ve barely lived at all?”
I scoffed—what about the kids, the husband, the garden? Wasn’t that life? But she insisted: come abroad, work a little. The children were grown, I had no ties. Why not breathe new air for once? I hesitated, but agreed. We saved up, I learned some basics of the language, and three months later, we were in Spain. There, for the first time, I truly breathed freely.
It wasn’t easy at first—different climate, different people. But no judgment, no expectations. I worked as a carer for an elderly couple—lovely people. Then I got a job in a café helping the cook. I earned my own money—held it in my hands, spent it how I pleased. I bought myself a skirt for the first time in 25 years. Got a haircut. Learned to ride a scooter. A fifty-year-old woman, racing along the coast like a teenager.
The children begged me to come back—to help with the grandkids. Said they missed their grandmother, needed me. But I found the courage to say, “I’m not a nanny. I’m your mother. And now—it’s my turn.” It was my first real choice.
I rented a cosy flat. Adopted a dog. Met a man—James, a widower, gentle, with amber-coloured eyes. He didn’t demand or order. He was just there—when I wanted him to be. I woke up smiling again, not in tears.
A year later, I’d lost two stone. Worked with a trainer. Cooked for myself, not an army. Laundry stopped feeling like a heroic act. I stopped believing a woman must give everything—just for being born one.
I even got a tattoo—a tiny bird on my wrist. To remember: I, too, can fly.
My children were hurt. Especially my son. “How could you? You abandoned us—you’re supposed to be here!” But I wasn’t. And I said it aloud. I gave you my whole youth—fed you, nursed you, held you. Now—it’s my time.
Now I know: no one will hand you your life unless you take it. And those who truly love you won’t begrudge you your freedom. If they do—they never loved you. They just used you.
I’m 53 now. I didn’t go back to England. I send postcards, but never money. They have their families, their lives—just as I have mine.
And you know what scares me most? That thousands of women still live as I did—never suspecting there’s another way. Well, there is. And no one will walk it for you.
