Elizabeth sat on the worn-out sofa in her flat in Manchester, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadn’t changed in twenty years. Her hands, rough from years of washing, cooking, and cleaning, rested limply on her lap. She was a mother of three, a wife who always put her family first. But at forty-eight, she suddenly realized: 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 routine.
Her children—William, Emily, and Charlotte—were the centre of her universe. From the moment they were born, Elizabeth forgot what it meant to think of herself. She woke at five to make breakfast, packed their school bags, checked their homework, washed their clothes while her own dresses gathered dust in the wardrobe. When William fell ill as a child, she stayed up all night by his bed, forgetting sleep. When Emily wanted ballet lessons, Elizabeth scrimped on everything to pay for them. When Charlotte begged for a new phone, Elizabeth took extra shifts to make it happen. She never asked what she wanted. It seemed her role was to give until there was nothing left.
Her husband, James, was no better. He came home from work, settled in front of the telly, and expected dinner as if it were his due. “You’re the mother, it’s your job,” he’d say when Elizabeth dared complain of exhaustion. She swallowed her tears and carried on, spinning like a hamster in a wheel. Her life boiled down to one thing: making everyone happy, even if she only got scraps of their attention in return. The children grew, becoming more independent, but their demands never lessened. “Mum, make something nice for dinner,” “Mum, wash my jeans,” “Mum, give me money for the cinema.” Elizabeth obeyed like a machine, blind to her own life slipping away.
By forty-eight, she felt like a shadow. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, grey hairs she never had time to dye, and hands roughened by work. Her friend, Margaret, once said, “Liz, you live for others. 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, a tiny spark began to smoulder, one that would soon set her world alight.
The breaking point came unexpectedly. That day, Emily, now a young woman, tossed out carelessly, “Mum, you’ve ruined my clothes again with the wash!” Elizabeth, who’d spent the night ironing them, froze. Something inside her snapped. She looked at her daughter, at the mess strewn across the room, at the kitchen piled with dirty dishes, and realized: she couldn’t do it anymore. *Wouldn’t.* That evening, she didn’t make dinner. For the first time in twenty years, 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’s. Sitting in the chair, watching the stylist trim her dull locks, she felt as if each snip cut away the weight of the past. She bought herself a dress—the first in decades—without worrying whether James or the kids would like it. She signed up for painting classes, a dream she’d abandoned for her family. Every small step was like breathing fresh air after years underwater.
The children were stunned. “Mum, so you’re not cooking anymore?” William asked, baffled by her sudden boundaries. “I will, but not always. Learn to manage,” Elizabeth replied, her voice trembling with fear and resolve. James grumbled, but she no longer feared his disapproval. She started saying *no,* and that word became her salvation. She never stopped loving her family, but for the first time, she put herself first.
Now, a year later, Elizabeth sees the world differently. She paints, exhibiting her work at local fairs. She laughs more than she cries. Her Manchester flat no longer feels like a storage room for others’ lives—it’s *her* space, filled with the scent of coffee and paint. The children help around the house, though it took time. James still complains, but Elizabeth knows: if he won’t accept her as she is now, she’ll walk away. She’s no longer a servant. At forty-eight, she’s finally found herself—and learned that love shouldn’t mean losing who you are.
