**Saturday, 16th March**
I never imagined it would come to this—being called selfish by my own daughters after a lifetime of sacrifice. Here in this quiet village in Cornwall, where time moves slowly and old stone cottages guard family secrets, there’s an unspoken rule: a mother must give everything to her children, leaving nothing for herself. But I, Eleanor, mother to two grown women, finally said no. And the storm it unleashed has left me both heartbroken and strangely free.
I married young, bright-eyed with dreams. Charlotte and Victoria came soon after, but joy faded when their father—a worthless man—vanished three years later, leaving me alone with two little girls. Raising them was relentless. I denied myself everything, working my fingers to the bone just to keep them fed and clothed. Still, some things—like a proper home—were beyond my reach. We lived in a cramped cottage on the village outskirts, surviving on what the garden could provide.
The girls grew, married, and moved to London, renting flats of their own. I stayed behind, worn out, retiring early as my health faltered. Then my elder sister, Margaret, fell ill. Without hesitation, I moved to her flat in Kensington—a spacious place, worlds away from my own. What I found there shook me.
Margaret had lived entirely for herself: travels, West End shows, designer clothes, never worrying over tomorrow. Even I was met with casual indifference. “If you won’t care for me, Ellie, I’ll find someone else,” she’d say. “And then the flat won’t be yours.” Her selfishness appalled me—yet, living with her, I began to understand. When she passed, leaving me the flat, something in me shifted. For the first time, I wondered—what if I lived for *me*?
I stayed. The hum of the city, the glittering lights—I felt alive again. I visited galleries, walked in Hyde Park, even joined a dance class. But my happiness was a thorn in my daughters’ sides.
Charlotte and Victoria had grown used to me putting them first. Charlotte and her husband, drowning in mortgage payments, assumed I’d sell the flat and hand them a share. Victoria, expecting her third child and stuck in rented digs, dreamed of buying a small place with the same money. They’d planned it all—without asking. When I refused, their fury was swift.
*”Selfish!”* Charlotte spat when they confronted me. *”You’ve always been there for us—how dare you throw it away for some silly new life?”* Victoria, tears streaming, added, *”You’d let my children grow up without a home?”*
The words cut deep. I remembered skipping meals so they could wear new school uniforms, stitching late into the night for extra pennies. Now, I was the villain. The cruelest part? Neither had lifted a finger to help with Margaret. They only appeared when inheritance was in play.
*”How can you enjoy yourself while we struggle?”* Charlotte shouted before slamming the door. Victoria stopped calling. I was erased from their lives, branded *”self-absorbed.”*
Yet I don’t regret it. Walking along the Thames, sipping coffee in little cafés, smiling at strangers—I’ve never felt freer. My eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now sparkle.
Who’s truly selfish? The mother who finally chose herself, or the daughters who demand still more? I know the answer—but it doesn’t ease the ache of losing them. I can only hope, one day, they’ll see: even a mother deserves her own heart.
