I spent my life in service to my children, until I discovered real life at forty-eight.
For all those years, I had been my childrens servant, until the day I finally understood what it meant to truly live.
Emily sat on the worn-out sofa of her flat in Manchester, staring at the faded wallpaper she hadnt bothered to change in two decades. Her hands, roughened by years of scrubbing, cooking, and cleaning, lay limp in her lap. She had been a mother to three children, a wife who always put her family first. But at forty-eight, it struck her suddenly: her entire life, she hadnt been a mother or a wife, but a maid. A servant in her own home, where her desires and dreams had dissolved into an endless routine.
Her childrenThomas, Charlotte, and Sophiewere the center of her universe. From the moment they were born, Emily forgot what it meant to think of herself. She woke at five to make breakfast, dress them for school, check their homework, wash their clothes, while her own dresses gathered dust in the wardrobe. When Thomas fell ill as a child, she stayed awake all night at his bedside, forgetting sleep. When Charlotte wanted dance lessons, Emily pinched pennies to pay for them. When Sophie begged for a new phone, she took odd jobs to afford it. Never once did she ask what *she* wanted. She believed her role was to give everything, down to the last drop.
Her husband, Oliver, was no better. He came home from work, slumped in front of the telly, and expected dinner as if by divine right. *”You’re a mother, its your duty,”* hed say when Emily dared complain of exhaustion. She swallowed her tears and carried on like a hamster on a wheel. Her life was reduced to one purpose: making others happy, even if all she got in return were crumbs of attention. The children grew, became more independent, yet their demands never lessened. *”Mum, make me something nice,”* *”Mum, wash my jeans,”* *”Mum, give me money for the cinema.”* Emily 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 never had time to dye, hands roughened by labour. Her friend, Alice, once told her, *”Emily, you live for others. But where are *you*?”* The words had stung, but she shrugged them off. What else could she do? She was a mother, a wifeher duty was to care for her family. Yet deep inside, a spark had begun to smoulder, a tiny flame that would soon set everything ablaze.
The breaking point came without warning. That day, Charlotte, now a young woman, tossed out carelessly, *”Mum, youve ruined my clothes in the wash again!”* Emily, who had spent the night ironing them, froze. Something inside her snapped. She looked at her daughter, the strewn laundry, the sink piled with dirty dishes, and realised: she couldnt do it anymore. She didnt *want* to. That evening, she didnt make dinner. For the first time in twenty years, she locked herself in her room and weptnot from sadness, but from the shock of seeing how much of herself shed lost.
The next day, Emily did what shed never dared: she went to the hairdresser. Sitting in the chair, watching her dull locks fall under the scissors, she felt the weight of the past lift. She bought herself a dressthe first in years, without worrying if her family would approve. She signed up for painting classes, a dream shed abandoned long ago. Every small step was like gulping air after years underwater.
The children were stunned. *”Mum, youre not cooking anymore?”* asked Thomas, used to her endless devotion. *”I will, but not always. Learn to manage,”* Emily replied, her voice trembling with fear and resolve. Oliver grumbled, but she no longer feared his disapproval. She learned to say *”no,”* and that word became her freedom. She hadnt stopped loving her familybut for the first time, she put herself first.
A year later, Emily saw the world differently. She painted canvases she displayed at local markets. She laughed more than she cried. Her flat in Manchester was no longer a dumping ground for othersit was her space, filled with the scent of coffee and paint. The children had started helping, even if theyd moaned at first. Oliver still complained, but Emily knew one thing: if he couldnt accept her as she was now, she would leave. She was no longer a servant. At forty-eight, she had finally found herself.
