Until she was thirty-five, Laura believed she was truly happy. Her loving husband, Edward, their son James, and daughter Emily—a modest but tight-knit family. Everything changed when Edward was laid off from the factory. Finding work in town was impossible, so he decided to go work in Ireland.
“Laura, the lads say there’s good money there,” he said one evening.
“But what about us? You there, us here—how is that a family?” she stammered.
“It won’t be forever. We’ll tough it out. Once we’re back on our feet, it’ll all be different.”
But “different” didn’t turn out how she hoped. Edward came home less and less, more distant and moody. Then, one day, as Laura was getting ready for his return, she went to buy groceries and found a letter in the postbox. From him.
She smiled, thinking it was sweet words of love—missing her. It arrived the day he was due back. She slipped it into her bag and opened it at home. Then her world collapsed.
“Laura, forgive me. I couldn’t say this to your face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the kids. Goodbye.”
She read it over and over, numb. Tears blurred her vision. Just then, ten-year-old James walked in.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. What’s going on?”
She jumped up, turned off the hob, waved away the smoke. Smiled shakily at him while her chest burned with pain.
A month later, they divorced. Edward left for good. He sent money, but he never came home. Ten years on, Laura learned he’d died in a car crash. And she was left alone with two kids and the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Years passed. Laura never remarried—she wouldn’t bring another man into the house. Her life was the kids. James grew up, married a woman named Sophie. They moved into his old room while Laura and Emily shared the other. Then came little grandson Harry. But neither Sophie nor Emily were in any hurry to leave. The house grew cramped and tense.
One day, Emily announced:
“Mum, I’m pregnant. Me and Danny are going to stay here for a bit.”
“Where?” Laura gasped. “One room’s got James, Sophie, and Harry, the other’s got us two. Where exactly are you planning to fit?”
“There’s the sofa in the kitchen. You don’t mind, do you?”
So Laura moved to the kitchen. The first night was hell. It only got worse—shouting, rows, endless bickering over missing food, noise at night, borrowed notepads.
Then one day, Laura noticed Sophie’s rounded belly.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yeah. We’re having another.”
“And the living situation?”
“Oh, so now you’re kicking us out?” Sophie snapped.
“No one’s kicking anyone! But there’ll be four of you in one room!”
“Well, your daughter could move—she’s got a husband!” Sophie shot back.
“So do you!” Laura snapped.
The next morning, James confronted her:
“Mum, you upset Sophie. Are you throwing us out?”
Emily, as if on cue, stormed in:
“Tell your husband to find your own place!”
“You know what?” Laura exploded. “Enough! All of you—out! James, Sophie, the kids. Emily, you and Danny. I can’t take it anymore. You’ve turned my home into a circus. None of you care about me or each other. That’s it. Get out.”
She said it firmly, loud, no hesitation. Even surprised herself. But she didn’t waver. Not for a second.
Three days later, they left. There were threats—”You’ll never see Harry again,” “We won’t speak to you.” Laura stayed quiet.
That evening, she sat alone in the kitchen. No shouting, no chaos. Just silence.
She looked around and, for the first time in years, felt like the house was hers again. She redecorated. Bought new furniture. And the next year? For the first time ever, she went abroad on holiday.
And if anyone dares say she’s selfish? She’s not. She gave her life to her kids. Now, at last, she’s living for herself. And she’s earned it.
