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 decades of washing, cooking, and cleaning, lay limp on her knees. She was a mother of three, a wife who had always put her family first. But at forty-eight, it struck her like a blow—she hadn’t been a mother or a wife. She’d been a servant. A servant in her own home, where her dreams had dissolved into the endless grind of chores.
Her children—Oliver, Emily, and Charlotte—had been 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 homework, washed their clothes while her own dresses gathered dust. When Oliver fell ill as a child, she stayed up nights at his bedside, sacrificing sleep. When Emily wanted ballet lessons, Elizabeth skimped on everything to pay for them. When Charlotte begged for a new phone, Elizabeth took on extra shifts. Never once did she ask what *she* wanted. It was her duty, she thought, to give until there was nothing left.
Her husband, Richard, was no better. He came home from work, slumped in front of the telly, and expected dinner as if by divine right. “You’re the mother, it’s your job,” he’d say whenever she dared complain. She swallowed her tears and kept spinning like a hamster in a wheel. Her life had one purpose: make them happy, even if all she got in return was crumbs. The children grew, more independent, yet their demands never lessened. “Mum, make us something nice,” “Mum, wash my jeans,” “Mum, give me money for the cinema.” She obeyed like a machine, blind to her own life slipping away.
By forty-eight, she felt like a ghost. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, greying hair she had no time to dye, hands calloused from work. Her friend, Margaret, once said, “Liz, you live for everyone else. Where are *you* in all this?” The words stung, but she brushed them off. What choice did she have? She was a mother, a wife—duty came first. But deep down, an ember glowed, tiny and fierce, until it set her world ablaze.
The breaking point came without warning. That day, Emily—now a young woman—snapped, “Mum, you’ve ruined my clothes again!” Elizabeth froze. She’d stayed up ironing those very clothes. Something inside her shattered. She looked at her daughter, the mess strewn across the room, the dishes piled in the sink, and knew—she couldn’t do it anymore. *Wouldn’t.* That evening, she didn’t cook. For the first time in twenty years, she locked herself in her room and wept—not from hurt, but from the crushing realisation that life had passed her by.
The next day, Elizabeth did the unthinkable: she went to the hairdresser’s. Sitting in the chair, watching strands of dull hair fall away, she felt lighter, as if the scissors were cutting loose the weight of her past. She bought a dress—her first in decades—without worrying if the children or Richard would approve. She enrolled in a painting class, a dream she’d abandoned for her family. Each small step was like breathing after years underwater.
The children were stunned. “Mum, you’re not going to cook anymore?” Oliver asked, baffled. “I will, but not every night. Learn to fend for yourselves,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steady despite the fear. Richard grumbled, but she no longer feared his disapproval. She started saying *no*, and that word became her salvation. She never stopped loving them—but for the first time, she loved herself more.
Now, a year later, Elizabeth sees the world differently. She paints, selling her work at local markets. She laughs more than she cries. Her Manchester flat no longer feels like a storage unit for other people’s lives—it’s *hers*, smelling of coffee and oil paints. The children help, though it took time. Richard still complains, but Elizabeth knows—if he can’t accept her now, she’ll leave. She’s not a servant anymore. At forty-eight, she’s finally found herself.
