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 scrubbing, cooking, and cleaning, lay limp in her lap. She was a mother of three, a wife who always put her family first. But at forty-eight, it hit her—she hadn’t been a mother or a wife all these years. She’d been a servant. A servant in her own home, where her dreams had dissolved into the endless grind of daily chores.
Her children—James, Emily, and Sophie—had been the centre of her universe. From the moment they were born, she forgot what it meant to think of herself. She woke at dawn to make breakfast, packed their school bags, washed their clothes while her own dresses gathered dust. When James fell ill as a boy, she stayed up all night at his bedside. When Emily wanted dance lessons, Elizabeth skimped on everything to pay for them. When Sophie begged for a new phone, she took extra shifts to make it happen. Never once did she ask what *she* wanted. It was her role to give until there was nothing left.
Her husband, William, was no better. He’d come home from work, plant himself in front of the telly, and expect dinner like it was his birthright. *”You’re the mother, it’s your job,”* he’d say if she dared complain. She’d swallow her tears and keep going, spinning like a hamster on a wheel. Her life boiled down to one thing: making everyone happy, even if all she got in return were scraps of attention. The children grew older, more independent, but their demands never lessened. *”Mum, make something nice for tea,” “Mum, wash my jeans,” “Mum, can I have money for the cinema?”* She obeyed like a machine, barely noticing her own life slipping away.
By forty-eight, she felt like a ghost. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, greying roots, and rough hands. 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 else could she do? She was a mother, a wife—her duty was to care for them. But deep down, a tiny spark flickered.
The breaking point came unexpectedly. One day, Emily, now grown, tossed out casually, *”Mum, you ruined my jumper in the wash!”* Elizabeth froze. She’d spent hours ironing that jumper. Something inside her snapped. She looked at her daughter, at the mess scattered across the room, at the dirty plates in the sink, and realised—she couldn’t do it anymore. That night, for the first time in twenty years, she didn’t make dinner. 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, she did something unthinkable: she went to the hairdresser’s. As the stylist snipped away her dull locks, she felt the weight of the years fall away. She bought herself a dress—the first in a decade, chosen just for her. She signed up for the painting class she’d dreamed of as a girl but abandoned for her family. Each small step was a breath of air after drowning for so long.
The children were stunned. *”Mum, you’re not cooking tonight?”* James asked, baffled. *”Not always. You’ll manage,”* she replied, her voice trembling with fear and defiance. William grumbled, but she no longer cared. She started saying *no*, and the word became her salvation. She loved her family, but for the first time, she put herself first.
A year later, Elizabeth sees the world differently. She paints, displaying her work at local fairs. She laughs more than she cries. Her flat in Manchester no longer feels like a storage unit for other people’s lives—it’s *her* space, smelling of coffee and fresh paint. The children help around the house now, however reluctantly. William still complains, but she knows—if he can’t accept this new her, she’ll walk away. She’s no longer a servant. At forty-eight, she’s finally found herself.
