**Diary Entry**
I’m just a mum. No right to love. No time for it either.
My daughter, Emily, turned sixteen. My youngest, Oliver, is twelve now. Nearly teenagers. And me? Still just a mum. Not a woman, not a person with dreams—just a mum. Mornings mean school runs and breakfasts. Work fills the day. Evenings belong to clubs, homework, and cooking. Nights? Exhaustion and muffled tears into the pillow. Quietly. So no one hears.
Their father, James, and I parted five years ago. No fights. No court battles. One day, he simply said I’d dissolved into motherhood, that there was no passion left between us. The truth, though, was different—he’d already been messaging another woman, one he’d apparently known for years.
I didn’t make it a tragedy for the kids. Told them it was for the best—now they had two homes. They struggled, of course. Emily barely ate; Oliver went silent in the evenings. But they got used to it. I was always there. Dad? Just occasionally—walks, cafés, the cinema. He rented a flat in Manchester, lived with that woman. Never invited the kids over—said he wasn’t ready for introductions. I didn’t argue. Let them see him. Let them keep that bond. Even if inside, I was torn apart.
They found out eventually. About the wedding. About her. Emily sobbed all night, then glared at me the next morning with such hurt and contempt—as if *I* were the one who’d betrayed them. Oliver was worse. He closed off, stopped sharing even the little things. I didn’t blame them. They were hurting. But so was I.
Then came New Year’s Eve. The office girls dragged me to the work party. The restaurant was packed—music, lights, laughter. For the first time in years, I let myself just *be*.
And that’s when I met him. Thomas. Not some magazine-cover heartthrob, but something in his eyes—warm, alive, real. Older, living alone, his son long grown and gone. We talked. I gave him my number. And so it began.
He brought me flowers. Told me I was beautiful. Just because. Asked about my day. No demands, no judgement. I hid those bouquets like a schoolgirl. Stashed his gifts in the cupboard. Washed off my perfume before coming home. It felt like lying—especially to the kids. I’d promised myself no steps toward happiness until they were grown.
Only Mum knew. Just her. She babysat when I sneaked off for dates. But one day… she slipped. Mentioned in passing to Emily that I was seeing someone. Emily *exploded*.
“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 striking deep. Oliver? He just walked to his room and closed the door. Barely speaks to me since.
I tried explaining. That I’m still their mum. That I’m human, that I crave warmth too. That Thomas is kind, that he doesn’t want to replace anyone—just be alongside us. But Emily won’t listen. To her, I’m the traitor.
Thomas wants us to move in together. Wants to marry. Build a future. And me? I’m stuck. Because my daughter’s given me an ultimatum: him or us. And I’m tearing in two.
My heart whispers: *You deserve love*. Motherhood screams: *The kids come first*. But am I not allowed to be a person too? Does being a good mum mean forgetting I’m a woman?
I’m scared. Scared of missing my last chance at happiness. Scared of failing the kids. Scared of ending up alone. And time’s running out…
What do I do? How do I make them see I can be a mum *and* a woman in love? How do I not lose myself, after all these years of living, breathing, fighting for them?
Ladies, if you’ve been here—tell me. Maybe you know the way. Because I… I’m tired of being a shadow.
