In a quiet village tucked away in the rolling hills of Cornwall, where time drifts lazily like the river through the valley, and where the thatched cottages hide generations’ worth of secrets, there was an unspoken rule: a mother ought to devote herself entirely to her children, abandoning her own dreams. But Helen, mother to two grown daughters, refused to follow this dusty old script. Her choice to accept her sister’s inheritance turned her life upside down—and sent ripples of outrage through those who had always seen her as nothing more than a self-sacrificing shadow.
Helen had married young, flush with hope. She bore two daughters, Poppy and Daisy, but her happiness was short-lived. Her husband, a rather rotten egg, vanished three years after Daisy’s birth, leaving Helen to raise the girls alone. Raising two children single-handedly was no picnic. She scrimped, saved, and worked herself to the bone just so her daughters could have the bare essentials. Yet some problems—like owning a home—remained stubbornly out of reach.
The little family squeezed into a tiny cottage on the village outskirts, its modest vegetable patch staving off hunger when times were tough. The girls grew up, married, and moved to London, renting flats of their own. Helen stayed behind, her health faltering, forcing an early retirement. Then her elder sister, Margaret, fell gravely ill. Without hesitation, Helen packed up and moved to the city to care for her, settling into Margaret’s spacious flat near Hyde Park. What she saw there stunned her.
Margaret, unburdened by family life, had lived entirely for herself. She’d spent her money on holidays, West End shows, and designer wardrobes, never fretting about the future. She’d even treated Helen with a rather cheeky indifference: “If you don’t care for me, dear, I’ll find someone else to do it. But then the flat won’t be yours when I’m gone.” Helen was gobsmacked—yet, living with Margaret, she slowly began to see the appeal of her sister’s philosophy. When Margaret passed, leaving her the flat, Helen woke up, as if from a decades-long trance. For the first time, she wondered: what if she lived for herself?
She stayed in the city flat, surrounded by the hum of traffic and glittering streetlamps. For the first time in years, she felt alive. She visited galleries, strolled through parks, even signed up for ballroom dancing lessons. But her newfound joy stuck in her daughters’ throats like an unchewed crumpet.
Poppy and Daisy had grown accustomed to their mother always putting them first. Poppy, saddled with a hefty mortgage, had assumed Helen would sell the inherited flat and gift her a tidy sum to ease the debt. Daisy, expecting her third child and stuck in a rented place, dreamed of buying a modest flat with the same money. They’d planned it all out—without bothering to ask Helen. But she refused. She wanted to stay in the city and live the life she’d never dared imagine.
“I’m tired of sacrificing myself,” she told them when they came demanding answers. “I want to live for me, just for once.”
The girls were apoplectic. They called her selfish, accused her of ingratitude. “You were always there for us, and now you’re abandoning us for your silly little hobbies!” Poppy shrieked. Daisy, dabbing her eyes, added, “How can you think only of yourself when I’ve got three children crammed into a shoebox of a flat?”
Helen stayed silent, though her heart ached. She remembered skipping meals so the girls could have new school uniforms, staying up late sewing to earn an extra pound. And now they accused her of betrayal. The bitterest pill? They hadn’t lifted a finger to help care for Margaret. They only turned up after their aunt’s death, when the scent of inheritance was in the air.
“Why have you forgotten us—and your own grandchildren? How dare you enjoy yourself in the city!” Poppy spat before storming out, the door slamming behind her.
Daisy stopped calling. The daughters cut Helen out of their lives, branding her “self-absorbed.” Alone now, Helen didn’t regret her choice. For the first time, she felt free. She walked along the Thames, sipped coffee in cosy cafés, smiled at strangers. Her eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now sparkled.
Could anyone blame her? She’d given her daughters everything, but in the end, she chose herself. The daughters, accustomed to her sacrifices, couldn’t accept her right to happiness. Who was the selfish one here—the mother who dared to live, or the daughters who demanded more? Helen knew the answer, though it did nothing to soften the sting of losing her family. She could only hope that one day, her girls would understand: even a mother has a right to her own heart.
