Elizabeth sat on the weathered sofa in her flat in Manchester, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadn’t changed in twenty years. Her hands, worn from years of laundry, cooking, and cleaning, rested limply on her knees. She was a mother of three, a wife who had always put her family first. But at forty-eight, she suddenly realised: her entire life, she hadn’t been a mother or a wife—she’d been a servant. A servant in her own home, where her desires and dreams had long dissolved into endless chores.
Her children—Oliver, Emily, and Sophie—had been the centre of her universe. From the moment they were born, Elizabeth forgot what it meant to think of herself. She woke at dawn to make breakfast, packed their school bags, checked their homework, washed their clothes while her own dresses gathered dust in the wardrobe. When Oliver fell ill as a child, she stayed by his bedside through the night, forgetting sleep. When Emily wanted ballet lessons, Elizabeth scrimped on everything to afford them. When Sophie begged for a new phone, she took on extra work to make it happen. She never asked what she wanted for herself. It seemed her role was to give until there was nothing left.
Her husband, David, was no better. He came home from work, sat in front of the telly, and waited for dinner as if it were his due. “You’re the mother—it’s your job,” he’d say whenever she dared complain of exhaustion. She swallowed her tears and carried on, spinning like a hamster on a wheel. Her life was a single refrain: make everyone happy, even if she was left with only scraps of their attention. The children grew, became more independent, but their demands didn’t stop. “Mum, make us something nice to eat.” “Mum, wash my jeans.” “Mum, give me money for the cinema.” Elizabeth obeyed like an automaton, barely noticing her own life slipping away.
By forty-eight, she felt like a shadow. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, greying hair she never had time to dye, hands roughened by work. Her friend, Margaret, once said, “Liz, you live for everyone else. Where are *you* in all this?” The words stung, but she brushed them off. How could she do otherwise? She was a mother, a wife—her duty was to care for her family. But deep down, something smouldered—a tiny spark that would soon catch fire.
The breaking point came unexpectedly. One day, Emily, now a young woman, tossed out carelessly, “Mum, you’ve ruined my clothes in the wash again!” Elizabeth, who had spent the night ironing her daughter’s things, froze. Something inside her snapped. She looked at her daughter, at the mess scattered across the room, at the kitchen piled with dirty dishes, and realised: she couldn’t do it anymore. *Wouldn’t*. That evening, for the first time in twenty years, she didn’t make dinner. She locked herself in her room and cried—not from hurt, but from the crushing truth that her life had passed her by.
The next day, Elizabeth did something she’d never done: she went to the hairdresser. As she watched the stylist trim her dull strands, she felt as though the scissors were cutting away the weight of the past. She bought herself a dress—the first in a decade—without worrying whether her children or husband would approve. She signed up for a painting class, the hobby she’d abandoned for her family. Each small step was like breathing fresh air after years underwater.
The children were stunned. “Mum, are you seriously not going to cook anymore?” Oliver asked, baffled by her sudden change. “I will—just not always. Learn to manage,” Elizabeth replied, her voice trembling with fear and resolve. David grumbled, but she no longer feared his disapproval. She started saying “no,” and the word became her salvation. She hadn’t stopped loving her family—but for the first time, she put herself first.
Now, a year later, Elizabeth sees the world differently. She paints pictures displayed at local fairs. She laughs more than she cries. Her flat in Manchester no longer feels like a storage room for everyone else’s clutter—it’s *her* space, smelling of coffee and paint. The children have started helping—grudgingly at first. David still mutters, but Elizabeth knows: if he won’t accept her now, she’ll leave. She’s no longer a servant. At forty-eight, she’s finally found herself.
