I devoted my whole life to my children, only to realize what living truly meant when I turned fortyeight.
All my years I had acted as their servant, until at 48 I finally saw that my existence had been nothing more than endless chores in my own home, where my wishes and dreams had been erased by routine.
Elodie sat on the worn sofa of her Lyon flat, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadnt changed in two decades. Her hands, scarred by countless loads of laundry, meals and cleaning, rested limp on her thighs. She was mother to three, wife who had always placed the family above everything else. Yet, at fortyeight, the truth struck her: she had never been a mother or a wife in the sense of selffulfillment, but a servant in her own house, her own desires dissolved into a neverending grind.
Her childrenThéo, Camille and Léawere the centre of her universe. From the moment they were born, Elodie forgot what it meant to think of herself. She rose at five each morning to make breakfast, dress them for school, check their homework, wash their clothes, while her own dresses faded forgotten in the wardrobe. When little Théo fell ill, she kept vigil through sleepless nights. When Camille wanted dance lessons, Elodie squeezed the budget to pay for them. When Léa begged for a new phone, she took odd jobs to buy it. She never asked what she herself wanted. She believed her purpose was to give everything away, down to the last drop.
Her husband, Olivier, was no better. He would come home, plop in front of the television and wait for dinner as if it were inevitable. Youre a mother, its your duty, he would say whenever Elodie dared to voice fatigue. She swallowed her tears, stayed silent, and kept spinning like a caged squirrel. Her life boiled down to one aim: make everyone else happy, even if she received only crumbs of attention in return. The children grew, became more independent, yet their demands never waned. Mom, make me something good, Mom, wash my jeans, Mom, give me money for the cinema. Elodie complied mechanically, oblivious to her own life slipping away.
At fortyeight she felt like a shadow. In the mirror she saw a woman with tired eyes, grey hair she never had time to dye, rough hands hardened by work. A friend, Aurélie, had once said, Elodie, you live for others. But where are you? Those words had struck her, yet she shrugged them off. Could she do otherwise? She was a mother, a wifeher duty was to care for her family. Still, a tiny spark began to stir inside her, a faint light ready to ignite a change.
The turning point came unexpectedly. One afternoon, Camillenow a young womansnapped, Mom, you still wash my clothes wrong, theyre ruined! Elodie, who had spent the night ironing, froze. Something inside her cracked. She looked at the scattered laundry, the kitchen piled with dirty dishes, and realised she could not go on. That evening she didnt cook. For the first time in twenty years she shut herself in her bedroom and weptnot from sorrow, but from the awareness that her life had slipped through her fingers.
The next day Elodie did something she had never dared: she went to the hairdresser. As the scissors fell on her dull hair, she felt the weight of the past lift. She bought a dressthe first in yearswithout asking whether it would please anyone at home. She enrolled in a painting class, a childhood dream she had abandoned for others. Each small step felt like a breath of fresh air after years of drowning.
Her children were shocked. Mom, youre not going to cook anymore? Théo asked, used to her constant devotion. I will, but not all the time. Learn to manage yourselves, Elodie replied, voice trembling with both fear and resolve. Olivier grumbled, but she no longer feared his displeasure. She learned to say no, and that word became her liberation. She still loved her family, but for the first time she put herself first.
A year later Elodie saw the world anew. She painted canvases she displayed at local markets. She laughed more than she cried. Her Lyon apartment was no longer a storage room for everyone elses stuffit was her sanctuary, scented with coffee and paint. Her children began to help, even if they had resisted at first. Olivier still muttered, but Elodie knew one thing: if he couldnt accept her as she was, she would leave. She was no longer a servant. At fortyeight, she finally found herself.
