I’m Just Mum. No Right to Love, No Time for It
My daughter Emily turned sixteen. My youngest, Oliver, is twelve—basically a teenager already. And me? Still just Mum. Not a woman, not a person with dreams or a right to a life of her own. Just Mum. Mornings are packed lunches and school runs. Daytime is work. Evenings are clubs, homework, and cooking dinner. Nights are exhaustion and muffled sobs into the pillow. Quietly. So no one hears.
Their dad, Daniel, and I split five years ago. No shouting matches, no court battles. He just said one day I’d vanished into motherhood, that we’d lost the spark. The truth? He’d already been texting another woman—someone he’d known for ages.
I didn’t make it a drama for the kids. Told them it was better this way—now they’d have two homes. They took it hard, of course. Emily stopped eating; Oliver went quiet for weeks. But they adjusted. I was always there. Dad? Occasional outings—walks, cafés, the cinema. He rented a flat in Manchester, moved in with *her*. Never invited the kids over—said he wasn’t ready for introductions. I didn’t push. Let them see him. Let them keep that bond. Even if inside, I was falling apart.
Then they found out. About the wedding. About *her*. Emily cried all night, and by morning, she looked at me like *I’d* betrayed her. Oliver? He just shut down. Stopped sharing even the little things. I couldn’t blame them. It hurt. But it hurt me too.
Then came New Year’s. The girls from work dragged me to the office party. A crowded restaurant, loud music, laughter. For the first time in years, I let myself just *be*.
And that’s when I met *him*. James. Not some magazine-cover heartthrob, but there was something in his eyes—warm, alive, real. Older, lived alone, his son long grown and gone. We talked. I gave him my number. And then… it began.
He brought me flowers. Told me I was beautiful. Just because. Asked about my day—no demands, no judgement. I hid the bouquets like a teenager sneaking contraband. Stashed gifts in the cupboard. Wiped off perfume before walking through the door. Felt like I was lying to everyone—especially the kids. I’d promised myself: no steps toward happiness until they were grown.
Mum knew. Only her. She babysat when I slipped out for dates. But then… she let it slip. Mentioned offhand to Emily that I’d been seeing someone. Emily *exploded*.
“You’re just like him!” she screamed. “You lied! You’re a hypocrite!”
I stood there, speechless. My girl, my pride, hurling words like knives—each one landing deep. Oliver? He just walked away. Has barely spoken to me since.
I tried explaining. That I’m still their mum. That I’m also a person who wants warmth. That James is kind, good—he’s not trying to replace anyone, just be *there*. But Emily won’t listen. For her, I’m the traitor.
James wants to move in. Wants to marry me. He’s ready to build a future. And me? I’m stuck. Because my daughter’s given an ultimatum: him or us. And I’m torn.
My heart whispers: *You deserve love.* Motherhood roars: *The kids come first.* But I’m still a person, aren’t I? Or is being a good mum forgetting you’re a woman forever?
I’m scared. Scared I’ll miss my last shot at happiness. Scared I’ll fail the kids. Scared I’ll end up alone. And time’s running out…
What do I do? How do I show them you can be a mum *and* a woman in love? How do I not lose myself for the people I’ve lived, breathed, fought for all these years?
Girls, if you’ve been here—tell me how you did it. Maybe you know the way. Because I… I’m tired of being a shadow.
