All my life, I was just a servant to my own children. It wasn’t until I turned 48 that I finally understood what it truly means to live.
Before 48, I had no clue life could taste any different. That I didn’t have to spend hours slaving over a stove, crawling on my knees with a cloth, or waiting for my husband’s approval because everything was spotless. I genuinely believed I was doing it right—that my role was to endure, be convenient, and endlessly sacrifice myself. How else was it supposed to be? That’s how my mum was taught, and her mum before her, and now me.
My name’s Emily. I’m from a tiny village in Yorkshire. Married at nineteen—where else was I supposed to go when half the girls I knew skipped uni for a wedding ring? Married Peter—seemed decent enough, hardworking, no major vices. We had two kids quick, a boy and a girl. And right then, I stopped existing as a woman, as a person. I became a shadow. A servant. Someone who owed everything but was owed nothing in return.
Peter lost interest fast. “Had the kids—good job, now cook and keep quiet.” He never hit me, but he loved his pints with the lads. Came home late, snapped if the kids made noise, shot me looks that could kill, even chucked a plate or two if dinner wasn’t to his taste. Worked, sure. But home was just a pit stop—eat, sleep, leave. The house? My job. The kids? My job. Bills, illnesses, DIY? All me.
When he turned forty-two, his heart gave out. Died right there at a mate’s kitchen table. Did I cry? Yeah—from fear, from the unknown, from being left alone. But not from grief. My grief was different—the life I’d never had.
After he died, I tried dating again for a bit. But it was the same sort—same entitled attitude, same demands. As if a woman’s just a list of chores with no soul. I gave up.
The kids grew up, moved away for uni. We kept in touch, but barely. Then, out of nowhere, my old mate Vicky reappeared. Unlike me, she’d actually seen the world. She looked at me one day and said,
“Em, don’t you think you’ve barely even lived?”
I snorted—what about the kids, the husband, the garden? Wasn’t that life? But Vicky wasn’t having it. She talked me into going abroad, just to work for a bit. Kids were grown, nothing tying me down, why not breathe different air for once? Took me ages to decide, but I went. We saved up, I learned bits of the language, and three months later, we were in Spain. And for the first time in my life, I breathed.
It wasn’t easy at first. Different weather, different people. But no one judged me. No pressure. I worked as a carer for this lovely elderly couple, then got a job in a café helping the chef. They paid me. Proper money I’d earned myself—money I could spend how I liked. I bought my first skirt in 25 years. Got my hair cut short. Learned to ride a scooter. Me—a fifty-year-old woman, zooming along the coast like some reckless teen.
The kids started asking me to come back—help with the grandkids. Said they were struggling, missed having Gran around. But I found the guts to say, “I’m not a babysitter. I’m your mum. And now it’s my turn.” First real choice I ever made.
I rented a cosy flat. Got a dog. Met a bloke—James, a widower, proper gentle, with these warm amber eyes. He didn’t demand, didn’t order me about. Just… stayed when I wanted him to. I started smiling in the mornings instead of waking up crying.
A year in, I’d lost two stone. Had a trainer, cooked for myself instead of an army. Laundry stopped feeling like a heroic feat. I unlearned the idea that being a woman meant owing the world just for existing.
I even got a tattoo—a tiny bird on my wrist. To remind me—I can fly too.
The kids were furious. Especially my son. “How could you? You abandoned us, you’re supposed to be here!” But I’m not. And I said it out loud. I raised you. Fed you, nursed you, cleaned up after you, held you. But now? It’s my time.
Now I know—no one hands you your life. You have to take it. And the people who truly love you won’t begrudge you that. And if they do? Then they never loved you. Just what you did for them.
I’m 53 now. Didn’t go back to England. Send the kids postcards. Money? Nah. They’ve got their own families, their own lives. Like I’ve got mine.
And you know what scares me most? That thousands of women are still living like I did. And don’t even know there’s another way. Well, there is. And no one’s walking it for you.
