—Oh, Emily, hello! Come to see your mum, have you?— called the neighbour from her balcony.
—Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Yes, just popping by.
—You ought to have a word with her,— the woman sighed.— Poor love’s been proper lost since the divorce.
—What do you mean?— Emily tensed.
—Well, I’ve been waking up early, insomnia and all. The other morning, it’s not even five, and I look out the window—there’s a cab pulling up, and out stumbles your mother. And she looked… well, let’s just say, not her usual self. Half-cut, if you ask me. The whole street’s talking. At her age! And why’d she go and chuck your dad out, eh? So he slipped up, but who doesn’t? Thirty years together—daft to throw it all away now.
—Thanks, Mrs. Thompson,— Emily muttered, swallowing hard.— I’ll talk to her.
With that, she hurried inside. Her mother *had* kicked her father out six months ago after catching him with another woman. Emily had begged her to reconsider—*these things happen*—but Mum wouldn’t budge. The oddest part? Instead of crumbling, she’d flung herself into life. New clothes, salsa nights, cocktails with the girls—none of which she’d ever bothered with before.
Emily couldn’t make sense of it. Here *she* was, about to marry James, planning babies. And her mum? Out till dawn in some dive bar. What sort of gran would she be? How’s she meant to introduce her to James’s mother—one knitting shawls, the other downing martinis in some neon-lit den?
When Emily stepped in, Mum greeted her with a teapot in hand and a grin. No frayed dressing gown—just a sharp taupe trouser suit. Manicure, pedicure, lashes fluttering like moth wings. She was *alive*.
—So, how’s James?— she asked, setting down the cups.
—Fine,— Emily forced a calm she didn’t feel.— You?
—Brilliant! Out with the girls till sunrise last night. Dancing, then karaoke. Proper laugh!
—Mrs. Thompson’s already filled me in,— Emily cut in darkly.— Five AM, and you were—what’s the word—*merry*?
Mum laughed.
—Course I was. Who goes to a bar for *tea*?
Emily snapped.
—Mum, don’t you think you’re taking the piss?
—How’s that?
—You’re not twenty. Salsa? Cocktails? You’re meant to be—well, *dignified*. You’ll be a gran soon!
—I’m a woman who’s finally free. And I won’t live by someone else’s rulebook.
—But you spent thirty years with Dad! How can you just—erase it?
Mum went quiet, then spoke soft but steely:
—Your father *chose* to betray me. Not a mistake—a choice. And I’m done being everyone’s maid. I want to *live*. For *me*. Thirty years I gave to family. Now? I answer to no one.
—But you’re nearly fifty!
—So? Since when do I have an expiry date?
Emily felt bile rise.
—Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you. I just worry.
—If I embarrass you, don’t invite me to the wedding. But know this—I won’t hide my grey hairs under some frumpy shawl. I’ll dance. Maybe even flirt. I’m *happy*.
—No, Mum, I want you there. It’s just—
—Just Mrs. Thompson’s wagging tongue? Let her wag. *I’m* finally living.
Back home, Emily told James everything.
—I don’t know how to feel.
He just laughed.
—Your mum’s ace. Didn’t drown in grief—chose joy instead. Since when’s happiness a crime?
That weekend, Emily rang Mum.
—Fancy a spa day? Then cocktails with live music?
—Won’t you blush for me?
—I’ll say you’re my big sister,— Emily giggled.
—Deal. But we’re not leaving early.
That day changed everything. Emily saw it then—the steel in her mother’s spine. And maybe, just maybe, she had something to learn: how to be unapologetically *herself*. To live not as one *should*, but as one *pleases*.
