Olivia sat on the worn-out sofa in her flat in Edinburgh, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadn’t replaced in twenty years. Her hands—calloused from years of washing, cooking, and cleaning—lay limp in her lap. She was a mother of three, a wife who had always put her family first. But at 48, it struck her: she hadn’t been a mother or a wife at all. She’d been a servant. A servant in her own home, where her dreams dissolved in an endless cycle of chores.
Her children—George, Emily, and Lily—were the centre of her world. From their first breath, she forgot what it meant to think of herself. She rose at dawn to make breakfast, packed their schoolbags, checked homework, washed their clothes while her own dresses gathered dust. When George fell ill as a boy, she stayed up nights at his bedside, forgetting sleep. When Emily wanted ballet lessons, Olivia pinched pennies to pay for them. When Lily begged for a new phone, she took extra shifts. She never asked what she wanted—she believed her role was to give until nothing remained.
Her husband, James, was no help. He came home from work, slumped in front of the telly, and waited for dinner as if it were his birthright. “You’re the mum—it’s your job,” he’d say if she dared complain. She swallowed her tears and carried on, like a hamster on a wheel. Her life was simple: make everyone happy, even if she got scraps of love in return. The children grew, needing her less, but their demands never stopped. “Mum, make us something nice,” “Mum, wash my jeans,” “Mum, lend me money for the cinema.” She obeyed without question, blind to her own life slipping away.
By 48, she felt like a shadow. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, greying roots, and rough hands. Her friend, Margaret, once said, “Liv, you live for everyone else. Where are *you* in all this?” The words stung, but she shrugged them off. Could she do otherwise? She was a mother, a wife—duty came first. But deep down, a tiny spark flickered.
The breaking point came unexpectedly. One day, Emily—now grown—snapped, “Mum, you ruined my jeans in the wash!” Olivia froze. Something shattered inside. She looked at her daughter, at the mess strewn across the room, at the dirty plates in the sink, and realised: she couldn’t do it anymore. That evening, 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 understanding how much of her own life she’d missed.
The next day, she did something unthinkable: she went to the hairdresser’s. As the stylist cut away her dull locks, she felt the weight of years lift with every snip. She bought herself a dress—her first in a decade—without worrying if James or the children would like it. She signed up for the art classes she’d dreamed of as a girl but abandoned for her family. Each small step was like breathing after decades underwater.
The children were stunned. “Mum, you’re not cooking anymore?” George asked, bewildered. “I will—just not always. Learn to fend for yourselves,” she replied, her voice trembling with fear and resolve. James grumbled, but she no longer cared. She started saying “no,” and that word became her salvation. She still loved her family—but for the first time, she prioritized herself.
Now, a year later, Olivia sees life differently. She paints and sells her work at local markets. She laughs more than she cries. Her flat in Edinburgh no longer feels like a storage unit for others—it’s hers, smelling of coffee and paint. The children help, grudgingly. James still moans, but she knows: if he won’t accept her now, she’ll leave. She’s no longer a servant. At 48, she’s finally found herself—and the lesson that it’s never too late to choose your own happiness.
