I had devoted my entire life to my children, only to discover what living truly meant when I turned fortyeight.
Elodie sat on the worn couch in her Lyon flat, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadnt changed in two decades. Her hands, scarred by years of laundry, cooking, and cleaning, rested limp on her thighs. A mother of three and a wife who always placed her family first, she suddenly realized at fortyeight that she had spent her whole existence not as a mother or a spouse, but as a servantservant to her own household, where her wishes and dreams had been swallowed by an endless routine.
Her childrenThéo, Camille, and Léawere the center of her universe. From the moment they were born, Elodie forgot what it meant to think of herself. She rose at five a.m. to make breakfast, dress them for school, check their homework, wash their clothes, while her own dresses faded unnoticed in the closet. When little Théo fell ill, she kept vigil through sleepless nights. When Camille wanted dance lessons, Elodie scraped together every spare penny to pay for them. When Léa dreamed of a new phone, she took odd jobs to buy it for her. She never asked what she herself wanted; she believed her role was to give everything, down to the last drop.
Her husband, Olivier, was no better. He would come home, plop in front of the television, and expect dinner as if it were his right. Youre a mother; its your duty, he would say whenever Elodie dared complain of fatigue. She swallowed her tears, stayed silent, and ran around like a caged squirrel. Her life boiled down to making others happy, even though 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 movies. Elodie obeyed like an automaton, 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, and roughened hands from endless work. A friend, Aurélie, had once said, Elodie, you live for everyone else. Where are you? The words struck her, but she shrugged them off. Could she act differently? She was a mother, a wife; her duty was caring for the family. Yet deep inside, a tiny spark began to glowa faint light that would soon upend everything.
The turning point arrived without warning. One afternoon, Camille, now a young woman, tossed out, Mom, you still didnt wash my clothes right; theyre ruined! Elodie, who had spent the night ironing, froze. Something inside broke. She looked at the scattered garments, the kitchen piled with dirty dishes, and realized she could no longer continue. That evening she didnt cook dinner. For the first time in twenty years she locked herself in her bedroom and weptnot from sadness, but from the realization that her life had slipped through her fingers.
The next day Elodie did what she had never dared before: she went to the hairdresser. As the scissors fell on her dull hair, she felt the weight of the past lift. She bought a dressfor the first time in yearswithout asking whether her family would approve. She enrolled in a painting class, a dream she had shelved as a teenager to serve others. Each small step felt like a breath of fresh air after years of drowning.
Her children were stunned. Mom, you wont cook anymore? Théo asked, used to her devotion. I will, but not every day. Learn to fend for yourselves, Elodie replied, her voice trembling with fear and resolve. Olivier grumbled, but she no longer feared his displeasure. She learned to say no, and that word became her emancipation. 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 belongingsit was her own sanctuary, scented with coffee and paint. The children began to pitch in, albeit reluctantly 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 had finally found herself.
