**Diary Entry**
For most of my life, I was just a servant to my own children. Only after turning forty-eight did I finally understand what it truly means to live.
Until then, I hadn’t a clue life could taste any different. That I didn’t have to spend all day slaving over a stove, scrubbing floors on my knees, or waiting for my husband’s approval because everything was spotless. I genuinely believed I was doing things right—that my role was to endure, to be convenient, to sacrifice endlessly. How else could it be? That’s what my mother was taught, and her mother before her, and now me.
My name is Evelyn. I’m from a tiny village in Cornwall. Married at nineteen—what choice did I have? Half the girls I knew went straight from school to the registry office, not university. I married William—a decent enough man, hardworking, no terrible vices. We quickly had two children, a boy and a girl. And just like that, I stopped existing as a woman, as a person. I became a shadow. A servant. Someone obliged to give everything, owed nothing in return.
William lost interest in me fast. “You’ve done your duty—now cook and keep quiet.” He didn’t hit me, but he loved a pint with his mates. He’d come home late, snap at the kids for making noise, glare at me, or throw plates if dinner wasn’t right. He worked, yes. But the house was just a hotel—somewhere to eat, sleep, and leave again. The household, the kids, the bills, the repairs—all on me.
At forty-two, his heart gave out. He dropped dead in a pub. Did I cry? Yes—from fear, from uncertainty, from being left alone. Not from grief. My grief was different—for the life I never had.
After he died, I tried dating again. But they were all the same—expecting me to serve, as if a woman had no soul, only duties. So I stopped trying.
The kids grew up, went off to university. We stayed in touch, but barely. Then my old friend Margaret reappeared—unlike me, she’d seen the world. She said, “Evie, don’t you realise you’ve never actually lived?”
I scoffed—what about the kids, the husband, the chores? Wasn’t that life? But she insisted: come abroad, work, breathe new air. No ties left. I hesitated, but agreed. We saved up, I learned some basics, and three months later, we were in Spain. For the first time, I truly filled my lungs.
It wasn’t easy at first—different climate, different people. But no one judged, no one pressured me. I cared for an elderly couple—kindest souls. Then worked in a café. They paid me. For the first time, I held money I’d earned—and could spend it how I liked. I bought myself a skirt—first in twenty-five years. Got my hair cut. Learned to ride a scooter. A fifty-year-old woman, racing along the coast like a girl.
The kids begged me to come back—help with the grandkids. Said they needed me. But I finally said, “I’m not your nanny. I’m your mother. And now, it’s my turn.” That was my first real choice.
I rented a cosy flat. Adopted a terrier. Met a man—Thomas, a widower, gentle, with amber eyes. He didn’t demand, didn’t order. He was just there when I wanted him. I woke up smiling, not in tears.
A year later, I’d lost two stone. Worked with a trainer. Cooked for myself, not an army. Laundry stopped feeling like a battle. I stopped believing women owe the world simply for existing.
I even got a tattoo—a little bird on my wrist. To remind myself I could fly, too.
The kids were furious, especially my son. “How could you? You owe us!” But I don’t. I said it aloud. I fed you, nursed you, cleaned up after you. Now—it’s my time.
Here’s what I’ve learned: no one hands you your life—you have to take it. And those who truly love you won’t resent your freedom. If they do, they never loved you—just used you.
I’m fifty-three now. I didn’t go back to England. I send postcards, not money. They have their own families, their own lives. Like I have mine.
And you know what terrifies me? That thousands of women are still living like I did—unaware there’s another way. There is. And no one will walk it for you.
