In a quiet village nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, where time moved slowly and age-old cottages held generations of secrets, there lingered an unspoken rule: a mother must devote herself entirely to her children, forsaking her own dreams. But Eleanor, a mother of two grown daughters, defied this expectation. Her choice to accept her sister’s inheritance upended her life and sparked outrage among those who had always seen her as nothing more than a selfless shadow.
Eleanor had married young, filled with hope. She bore two daughters, Margaret and Dorothy, but her happiness was fleeting. Her husband, a scoundrel, vanished three years after Dorothy’s birth, leaving Eleanor alone to raise the girls. The struggle was unrelenting. She denied herself every comfort, toiling tirelessly so her daughters might want for nothing. Yet some burdens—like owning a home—remained out of reach.
The family crowded into a modest cottage on the village outskirts, sustained by a small garden in lean times. The girls grew, married, and moved to London, renting flats of their own. Eleanor stayed behind, her health faltering, forcing her into an early retirement. Then her elder sister, Beatrice, fell gravely ill. Without hesitation, Eleanor left for the city to care for her, moving into Beatrice’s spacious townhouse. What she found astonished her.
Beatrice, unburdened by family, had lived for herself. She spent her money on travels, theatres, and fine dresses, never fretting over the future. Even her kindness carried a cold edge: “If you won’t tend to me, Eleanor dear, I’ll find someone else. And then this house shan’t be yours.” Shocked by such selfishness, Eleanor slowly came to understand her sister’s philosophy. When Beatrice passed, leaving her the townhouse, it was as if Eleanor had awoken. For the first time, she wondered: what if she lived for herself?
She remained in the city, surrounded by the hum of life and flickering gas lamps. For the first time in decades, she felt alive. She visited galleries, strolled through parks, even enrolled in dancing lessons. But her joy became a thorn in her daughters’ sides.
Margaret and Dorothy had grown accustomed to their mother’s endless sacrifices. Margaret, weighed down by a mortgage, had assumed Eleanor would sell the townhouse and share the proceeds, easing her debt. Dorothy, expecting her third child and stuck in rented rooms, dreamed of buying a modest flat with the same money. The daughters had it all planned—without consulting their mother. Yet Eleanor refused to sell. She chose to stay, to live as she had never dared before.
“I’m tired of sacrificing myself,” she told them when they demanded answers. “I want to live for myself, if only now.”
The daughters were incensed. They called her selfish, accused her of ingratitude. “You were always there for us, and now you cast us aside for your own whims!” Margaret shouted. Dorothy, wiping tears, added, “How can you think only of yourself when my children have no proper home?”
Eleanor stayed silent, though her heart shattered. She remembered skipping meals so her daughters could wear new dresses to school, stitching late into the night for an extra shilling. Now they called her a traitor. Worst of all, they had not lifted a finger to help care for Beatrice. They appeared only after her death, scenting inheritance.
“Why have you forgotten us and your grandchildren? How dare you revel in city life?” Margaret spat before slamming the door.
Dorothy stopped calling. The daughters erased their mother from their lives, branding her “self-absorbed.” Eleanor was alone, but she did not regret her choice. For the first time, she felt free. She walked along the Thames, sipped tea in cosy cafés, smiled at strangers. Her eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now gleamed with life.
Could Eleanor be blamed? She had given her daughters all she could, yet in the end, she chose herself. The daughters, accustomed to her sacrifices, could not bear her claim to happiness. Who was the selfish one—the mother who dared to live, or the daughters who demanded more? Eleanor knew the answer, but it did not mend the rift. She could only hope that one day, her daughters might understand: even a mother has a right to her own heart.
