By the time she turned thirty-five, Lydia had always believed herself to be truly happy. Her loving husband, Edward, their son Thomas, and daughter Charlotte—a modest but tight-knit family. Everything changed when Edward was laid off from the factory. Finding work locally proved impossible, so he made the difficult decision to seek work abroad, in Germany.
“Lydia, the lads reckon there’s good money to be made,” he said one evening.
“What about us? You here, me there—how is that a family?” she protested, heart racing.
“It’s only temporary. We’ll manage. Once we’re back on our feet, everything will be different.”
But “different” wasn’t what she had hoped. Edward returned less often, increasingly distant, his smiles rare. Then, one day, as Lydia prepared for his latest visit, she checked the postbox and found a letter. From him.
She smiled—perhaps words of love, of missing her. It had arrived on the very day he was due back. She tucked it into her bag, and at home, tore it open. Then, her world collapsed.
*”Lydia, forgive me. I couldn’t say it to your face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the children. Goodbye.”*
She read it again and again, disbelief hollowing her chest. Tears blurred the words. Just then, ten-year-old Thomas wandered in.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. What’s wrong?”
She jerked up, switched off the hob, waved away the fumes. Forced a smile for her son, while inside, her heart burned.
A month later, the divorce was final. Edward left for good. Money arrived, but he never stepped foot in their home again. Ten years on, Lydia learned he’d died in a car crash. She was left alone—two children, endless responsibility.
Years passed. Lydia never remarried—no stranger would set foot in her home. Her life belonged to Thomas and Charlotte. Thomas grew up, married Emily. They moved into his old room, while Lydia and Charlotte shared the other. Then came little Henry. Yet neither Emily nor Charlotte showed any hurry to leave. The house grew cramped, tensions simmering.
One day, Charlotte announced, “Mum, I’m pregnant. Slav—I mean, *James* and I will stay with you a while.”
“*Where?*” Lydia gasped. “Thomas, Emily, and Henry in one room, us in the other. Where do you expect to put more people?”
“There’s the sofa in the kitchen. You don’t mind, do you?”
So Lydia moved to the kitchen. The first night was hell. Then things got worse. Shouting, squabbles—who ate the last sausage, who made noise at night, who borrowed a notebook without asking. Every petty grievance exploded.
Then Lydia noticed Emily’s rounding stomach.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. We’re having another.”
“And the *space*?”
“Oh, so now you’re kicking us out?” Emily snapped.
“No one’s kicking anyone! But four of you in one room—”
“Your daughter should move—she’s got a *husband*!” Emily shot back.
“So do *you*!” Lydia snapped.
The next morning, Thomas cornered her. “Mum, you upset Emily. Are you throwing us out?”
Charlotte, on cue, stormed in. “Tell your husband to sort out a place for *you*!”
“You know what?” Lydia’s voice cracked like a whip. “Enough. *All* of you—out! Thomas, Emily, the kids. Charlotte, you and James. I can’t do this anymore. You’ve turned my home into a battleground. You don’t respect me—or each other. That’s it. *Leave.*”
The words left her, sharp, final. Even she was shocked by her own steel. But she didn’t waver. Not for a second.
Three days later, they were gone. Ugly words followed—*”You’ll never see Henry again,”* *”We’re done with you.”* Lydia stayed silent.
That evening, she sat alone in the kitchen. No shouts. No arguments. Just quiet.
She looked around—and for the first time in years, felt like the house was truly hers. She redecorated. Bought new furniture. The next year, for the first time in her life, she went on holiday abroad.
Let them say she was selfish. She’d given everything to her children. Now, at last, she was living for herself. And she wouldn’t apologise for it. Not ever.
