When Mum Leaves for the Sea: How a Woman Who Lived for Others Finally Chose Herself
“Steven, could you fetch some bread, please?” Margaret’s voice trembled like thin ice cracking underfoot. “The pavement’s slippery, and I don’t think I can manage…”
“Mum, are you joking?” Mark rolled his eyes without lifting himself from the sofa. “I just got off my night shift. Emma and I were about to put a film on. Don’t you want me to relax for once?”
“Son… I really can’t make it…” she whispered, clutching the phone.
“Mum, you’re acting like you’re from the Stone Age! There’s delivery apps for this sort of thing—use them! Learn how!”
“I get all mixed up with these phones… Couldn’t you order for me?”
“I’m driving—hardly the time. Ask Emily.”
“I did… She’s in a meeting.”
Mark sighed. “Fine. I’ll sort it when I get home. Tell me what you need.”
“Alright, I’ll wait,” Margaret murmured. But the call never came—not in an hour, not in two. She tried ringing him herself, only to be met with silence. In the end, their neighbour, Mr. Thompson, stepped in. He placed the order on his app and even helped her unpack the bags.
As she put the shopping away, Margaret felt a weight settle in her chest. Why was this her life? After all she’d given, why was no one there when she needed them?
She’d been a good mother. Widowed when Mark was sixteen and Emily just eleven, she’d raised them alone—working both as an accountant and a night cleaner. Her own mother and sister had pitched in before passing, leaving her to shoulder it all.
Her father’s flat went to Emily. Her mother’s went to Mark. And for herself? Nothing. She gave everything—schooling, weddings, grandchildren. She never complained. She’d tell herself, “They’ll have a future. They’ll be all right.”
She drove them to clubs, stayed up helping with homework, did the laundry, cooked, dragged shopping bags up the stairs, nursed them through colds. And now? She was background noise. Like a kitchen shelf—always there, never noticed.
When Emily asked her to look after the dog, she walked him in rain and frost. When Mark left his son for the weekend, she stayed up all night. Never asking for anything in return.
But when she fell ill? Mr. Thompson brought her medicine. Her children visited for ten minutes. Emily wrinkled her nose.
“Mum, you know hospitals make me anxious…”
“Nobody enjoys them, love.”
“Get well soon. We’ll ring you later.”
Mark left just as fast. “Emma’s knackered, and the baby needs me.” No hug, no time to sit with her. Nothing.
And today… The frost crunching underfoot sharpened the thought: she was getting old. One slip, and who’d come? Nobody.
Then, a sudden memory—that summer when she was thirty. Mark still small, Emily not yet born. A retreat in Cornwall. Warm, quiet, no one demanding anything. No phones. Just her and the sea. That was the last time she’d been happy.
Thirty years had passed.
And not once had she lived for herself since.
That night, lying in bed, she wondered—what was keeping her here? The children were settled, with homes of their own. No gratitude, no love. Just demands. And her? Wasn’t she a person too?
By morning, she’d made up her mind. Over tea, she took out a notebook and wrote: “Sell the flat. Buy a house by the sea. Live for myself.”
The estate agent was quick—a friend had recommended one. The flat sold in a month. Funds transferred, papers signed. When everything was settled, she called her children.
“What’s wrong?” Mark frowned. “I just got in from work.”
“Mum, I’ve got plans with a colleague—make it quick?”
“Yes. There’s something you should know.”
“Go on,” Emily huffed. “But hurry up. And we’ll drop Chester off this weekend.”
“That won’t be possible,” Margaret said gently.
“Why not?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?!” they said in unison.
“To Brighton. I’ve bought a house by the sea. I’m moving there.”
Silence. Then Mark laughed.
“Mum, pull the other one. How’d you afford that?”
“I sold the flat.”
“WHAT?” Emily gasped. “Without consulting us?”
“You’re always busy. Never time for me.”
“And you’ll manage alone?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s mine—my house, my sea, my life.”
“Mum, did you even think about us?” Emily shrieked. “We were counting on inheriting the flat!”
“I thought you’d be my support. I was wrong. I love you both. But now, I choose me.”
They left—angry, stunned. And for the first time in thirty years, being alone didn’t scare her. It felt like freedom.
A week later, she stood on the porch of her new home, breathing in the salty air, running her hand along the warm windowsill. Quiet. Peace. Liberty.
Sometimes, to truly live again, you must simply walk away—from those who don’t cherish you, and toward yourself. Toward the sea. Toward life.
