**Diary Entry**
I spent my life serving my children until, at forty-eight, I finally discovered what it meant to truly live.
For years, I was nothing more than a servant in my own home. I sat on the worn-out sofa in my flat in Manchester, staring at the faded wallpaper I hadnt bothered to change in two decades. My handsrough from years of scrubbing, cooking, and cleaningrested limply on my knees. I was a mother of three, a wife who always put her family first. But at forty-eight, it hit me: I hadnt been a mother or a wife. Id been a maid. My own dreams had dissolved into an endless routine.
My childrenJames, Emily, and Sophiewere the centre of my world. From the moment they were born, I forgot what it meant to think of myself. I woke at dawn to make breakfast, iron their school uniforms, check homework, wash their clotheswhile my own dresses gathered dust in the wardrobe. When James fell ill as a child, I stayed up night after night, forgetting sleep. When Emily wanted ballet lessons, I pinched pennies to afford them. When Sophie begged for a new phone, I took odd jobs to buy it. Never once did I ask what *I* wanted. I believed my role was to give until there was nothing left.
My husband, Michael, was no better. Hed come home from work, slump in front of the telly, and expect dinner like it was his right. *”Youre a motherits your duty,”* hed say if I dared complain. I swallowed my tears and carried on, spinning like a hamster on a wheel. Even as the children grew, their demands didnt stop. *”Mum, make me something nice.” “Mum, wash my jeans.” “Mum, can I have money for the cinema?”* I obeyed, like a machine, not realising my own life was slipping away.
By forty-eight, I felt like a ghost. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes, grey roots she never had time to dye, hands cracked from work. My friend Charlotte once said, *”You live for others. But where are *you* in all this?”* The words stung, but I shrugged them off. What else could I do? I was a mother, a wifemy duty was to my family. Yet somewhere inside, a tiny spark had begun to smoulder.
The breaking point came without warning. That day, Emilynow a young womansnapped, *”Mum, youve ruined my clothes again!”* I froze. Something inside me shattered. I looked at the mess, the dirty dishes, my daughters careless glare, and finally understood: I couldnt do it anymore. That evening, I didnt make dinner. For the first time in twenty years, I locked myself in my room and criednot from sadness, but from the weight of a life Id lost.
The next day, I did the unthinkable. I went to the hairdresser. Watching my dull locks fall to the floor, I felt lighter. I bought a new dressjust for me, not caring if anyone approved. I signed up for painting classes, something Id loved as a girl but abandoned for others. Each small step was a gasp of air after years underwater.
The children were stunned. *”Mum, youre not cooking tonight?”* James asked, bewildered. *”No. Youll manage,”* I replied, my voice trembling but firm. Michael grumbled, but for once, I didnt care. I learned to say *”no,”* and that word set me free. I still loved thembut now, I loved myself too.
A year later, everything had changed. I painted canvases I sold at local markets. I laughed more than I cried. My flat was no longer a dumping groundit was *mine*, filled with the scent of coffee and paint. The kids helped now, though theyd moaned at first. Michael still complained, but I knew one thing: if he couldnt accept me as I was, Id leave. I wasnt a servant anymore. At forty-eight, Id finally found myself.
