Until she was thirty-five, Lorraine considered herself a genuinely happy woman. A loving husband, James, their son Oliver, and daughter Emily—modest but solid family life. Everything changed when James was laid off from the factory. Finding work locally proved impossible, so he announced one evening,
“Lorraine, the lads say there’s good money in Germany.”
“And what about us? You there, us here. What sort of family is that?” she stammered.
“It’s just temporary. We’ll tough it out. Once we’re back on our feet, everything’ll be different.”
But “different” wasn’t what she’d hoped for. James visited less and less, growing grimmer and more distant. Then, one day, as Lorraine prepped for his return, she checked the postbox on her way back from Tesco—and found a letter. From him.
She grinned, assuming it was some lovestruck note, timed for his arrival. Tossing it in her bag, she opened it at home. Then collapsed.
*”Lorraine, forgive me. I couldn’t say this face-to-face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the kids. Goodbye.”*
She reread it, stunned. Tears blurred the words. Just then, ten-year-old Oliver wandered in.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. You alright?”
She sprang up, switched off the hob, flapped a tea towel at the haze. Forced a smile at her son while her chest burned.
A month later, they divorced. James left for good—child support arrived, but he never stepped foot in their house again. A decade on, Lorraine heard he’d died in a car crash. Meanwhile, she raised two kids alone, shoulders squared under the weight.
Years passed. Lorraine never remarried—no stranger would replace their father. Her world was her children. Oliver grew up, wed Sophie. They squeezed into his old room, while Lorraine and Emily shared the other. Grandson Alfie arrived. Yet neither Sophie nor Emily showed any hurry to leave. The house grew cramped, tempers frayed.
Then Emily announced:
“Mum, I’m pregnant. Me and Dave’ll stay with you a bit.”
“*Where?*” Lorraine gasped. “Oliver’s lot in one room, us in the other. Where’s ‘a bit’ supposed to fit?”
“There’s the sofa in the kitchen. You don’t mind, right?”
So Lorraine moved to the kitchen. The first night was hell. Then things worsened: squabbles over stolen bacon, midnight noise, borrowed stationery—every spat a fresh battlefield.
Then Lorraine noticed Sophie’s rounding belly.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. Second one’s coming.”
“And the housing situation?”
“What, chucking us out now?” Sophie snapped.
“Nobody’s chucking anyone! But four in one room?”
“Well, your daughter can leave—she’s got a husband!” Sophie shot back.
“So do you!” Lorraine finally exploded.
Next morning, Oliver cornered her:
“Mum, you upset Sophie. You kicking us out?”
Emily, on cue, marched in:
“Tell your husband to sort his own housing!”
“You know what?” Lorraine roared. “Enough! *All* of you—out! Oliver, Sophie, the kids. Emily, take Dave. I’m done! My house isn’t a circus. You’ve no respect—for me or each other. That’s it. Out!”
She said it firm, loud, no hesitation. Even surprised herself. But not a shred of regret.
Three days later, they left. Threats flew—”You’ll never see Alfie again,” “We’re cutting you off.” Lorraine stayed silent.
That evening, she sat alone in the kitchen. No shouts, no chaos. Just quiet.
She looked around and, for the first time in years, felt like the house was hers again. Repainted walls. New furniture. The following year, she took her first ever holiday abroad.
Let anyone call her selfish—nonsense. She’d given her life to her kids. Now, finally, she was living for herself. And rightly so.
