I’m Just Mum. No Right to Love, No Time for It
My daughter Rosie turned sixteen. My little boy, Alfie, is twelve now—already nearly a teenager. And still, I’m just *Mum*. Not a woman, not a person with dreams and a right to a life of her own, just *Mum*. Mornings—school runs and packed lunches. Afternoons—work. Evenings—clubs, homework, cooking supper. Nights—exhaustion and silent tears into my pillow. Quiet, so no one hears.
Their father, James, and I split five years ago. No shouting, no court battles. He just told me one day I’d disappeared into motherhood, that there was no spark between us anymore. Except the truth was different—he’d already been messaging another woman, someone he’d known for years, as it turned out.
I didn’t make it a tragedy in front of the kids. Told them it was for the best—now they had two homes. They struggled, of course. Rosie stopped eating; Alfie went quiet in the evenings. But they got used to it. I was always there for them. Dad turned up now and then—for walks, café trips, the cinema. He rented a flat in Manchester, lived with that woman. Never invited the kids—said he wasn’t ready for that introduction. I didn’t argue. Let them see him, let them keep that tie. Even though inside, I was breaking.
But they found out anyway. About the wedding. About *her*. Rosie sobbed all night, and in the morning, she looked at me with such hurt and disgust, as if *I* were the one who’d betrayed them. Alfie was worse—he shut down completely, stopped sharing even the smallest things. I couldn’t blame them. It hurt them. But it hurt me too.
Then came New Year’s. The girls from work dragged me to the office party. A crowded restaurant, music, noise, lights. We laughed. For the first time in years, I let myself just *be*.
And that’s when I met *him*. Paul. Not some magazine-perfect man, but there was something in his eyes—warm, alive, real. Older, lived alone, his son long grown and gone. We talked, I gave him my number. And then it started.
He brought me flowers. Told me I was beautiful. Just because. Asked about my day—didn’t demand, didn’t judge. And I hid those bouquets like a schoolgirl. Stashed gifts in the cupboard. Washed off perfume before coming home. I felt like I was deceiving everyone—especially the kids. I’d promised myself no steps toward happiness until they were grown.
Mum knew. Only her. She watched the kids while I slipped out for secret dates. But one day… she let it slip. Just mentioned in passing to Rosie that I’d been with a man. Rosie *flared*.
“You’re just like *him*!” she screamed. “You lied! You’re a hypocrite!”
I stood there, speechless. My girl, my pride, hurling words like knives. Each one found its mark. And Alfie… just walked to his room and didn’t say a word. Barely speaks to me now.
I tried explaining. That I hadn’t stopped being their mum. That I was still a person who needed warmth. That Paul was kind, good—he didn’t want to replace anyone, just be near me. But Rosie won’t listen. To her, I’m the traitor.
Paul wants us to move in together. Wants to get married. Wants a future. And I… I’m stuck. Because my daughter’s given me an ultimatum: him or them. And I’m torn apart.
My heart whispers—*you deserve love*. Motherhood screams—*the children come first*. But I’m a person too, aren’t I? Or is being a good mother supposed to mean forgetting you’re a woman forever?
I’m scared. Scared I’ll miss my last chance at happiness. Scared I’ll betray my kids. Scared I’ll end up alone. And time’s running out…
What do I do? How do I tell them you *can* be a mum and a woman in love at the same time? How do I keep from losing myself to the ones I’ve lived, breathed, fought for all these years?
Ladies who’ve been here—please, tell me. Maybe you know the way. Because I… I’m tired of being a ghost.
