In a quiet little village in the English countryside, where life moves at its own gentle pace and old brick houses hold generations of whispered secrets, there was an unspoken rule: a mother must devote her entire life to her children, setting aside her own dreams. But Eleanor, a mother of two grown daughters, refused to follow that script. Her decision to accept her sister’s inheritance turned her world upside down—and sparked outrage among those who’d always seen her as nothing more than a selfless shadow.
Eleanor had married young, full of hope. She had two daughters, Emily and Charlotte, but happiness didn’t last. Her husband turned out to be a scoundrel, vanishing three years after Charlotte’s birth, leaving Eleanor alone to raise the girls. Raising children by herself was grueling. She denied herself everything, working tirelessly just so her daughters would never go without. Still, some hardships—like owning a home—remained out of reach.
They squeezed into a tiny cottage on the village’s edge, with a small vegetable patch that kept them fed in lean times. The girls grew up, married, and moved to the city, renting flats of their own. Eleanor stayed behind, her health failing, forcing her into early retirement. Around then, her elder sister, Margaret, fell gravely ill. Without hesitation, Eleanor packed up and moved to the city to care for her—into Margaret’s spacious flat in the heart of London. What she found there stunned her.
Margaret, with no family of her own, had lived entirely for herself. She’d spent her money on holidays, theatre trips, designer clothes, never fretting over the future. Even toward Eleanor, she’d been dismissive: “If you won’t look after me, Ellie, I’ll find someone else. Then the flat won’t be yours.” Eleanor was shocked by her sister’s selfishness, but living with Margaret slowly changed her perspective. When Margaret passed away, leaving her the flat, something in Eleanor woke up. For the first time, she wondered: *What if I lived for me?*
She stayed in that city flat, surrounded by the hum of traffic and the glow of streetlamps. For the first time in decades, she felt alive. She visited galleries, strolled through parks, even signed up for dance classes. But her newfound joy stuck in her daughters’ throats.
Emily and Charlotte were used to their mother always putting them first. Emily, struggling with a mortgage, had assumed Eleanor would sell the flat and hand over part of the money to ease their burden. Charlotte, expecting her third child while stuck renting, dreamed of buying a modest home with the same funds. They’d made plans—*without even asking her.* But Eleanor refused to sell. She chose to stay in the city and live the life she’d never dared dream of.
“I’m tired of sacrificing myself,” she told them when they stormed in, demanding answers. “I want to live for me, just this once.”
The girls were livid. They called her selfish, ungrateful. “You were always there for us, and now you’re throwing us away for your own whims!” Emily shouted. Charlotte, wiping tears, added, “How can you only think of yourself when my kids are crammed into a tiny rented place?”
Eleanor stayed silent, but her heart shattered. She remembered skipping meals so her girls could wear new dresses to school, sewing late into the night for extra cash. And now? They accused her of betrayal. The cruelest part? They hadn’t even helped care for Margaret. They only showed up after her death—when inheritance was on the table.
“Why have you abandoned us—and your grandchildren? How dare you enjoy yourself in the city?” Emily spat before slamming the door.
Charlotte stopped calling. The girls cut her out of their lives, branding her “self-obsessed.” Eleanor was alone, but she didn’t regret her choice. For the first time, she felt free. She walked along the Thames, sipped coffee in cosy cafés, smiled at strangers. Her eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now sparkled.
Can you blame her? She gave her daughters everything she had—but this time, she chose herself. The girls, raised on her sacrifices, couldn’t accept her right to happiness. So tell me—who’s the selfish one? The mother who finally lived, or the daughters who demanded more? Eleanor knew the answer. But it didn’t ease the ache of losing her family. She could only hope that one day, they’d understand: even a mother has the right to her own heart.
