**Just a Mum. No Right to Love, No Time for It**
My daughter Poppy turned sixteen this year. My youngest, Alfie, is now twelve—already nearly teenagers. And yet, I’m still just a mum. Not a woman. Not a person with dreams or a right to her own life. Just a mum. Mornings are school runs and breakfasts. Days are work. Evenings are clubs, homework, cooking supper. Nights are exhaustion and silent tears into the pillow, careful so no one hears.
Their dad, Oliver, and I split five years ago. No screaming rows. No court battles. He just said one day that I’d vanished into motherhood, that there was no spark left. The truth was different—he’d already been messaging another woman, someone he’d known for years.
I didn’t make it a spectacle for the kids. Told them it was better this way—now they had two homes. They struggled, of course. Poppy wouldn’t eat; Alfie stopped talking at night. But time passed. They adjusted. I was always there. Dad? Just occasionally—walks, cafés, the cinema. He rented a place in Manchester, lived with that woman. Never invited the kids over—said he wasn’t ready for introductions. I didn’t argue. Let them see him. Let them keep that bond. Even if it tore me apart inside.
They found out, though. About the wedding. About her. Poppy sobbed all night, then glared at me like *I’d* been the one to betray them. Alfie was worse—shut down completely, stopped sharing even the little things. I didn’t blame them. They were hurting. But so was I.
Then came New Year’s. The girls from work dragged me to the office party. A crowded restaurant, music, laughter. For the first time in years, I let myself just *be*.
That’s when I met him. James. Not some magazine-cover heartthrob, but there was warmth in his eyes—real, alive. Older. Lived alone, his son long grown and gone. We talked. I gave him my number. And then it began.
Flowers for no reason. Telling me I was beautiful. Asking about my day—no demands, no judgement. I hid the bouquets like a teenager, stashed his gifts in the cupboard. Scrubbed perfume off my neck before coming home. Felt like I was cheating—especially the kids. I’d *promised* myself no steps toward happiness till they were grown.
Mum knew. Only her. She babysat when I slipped out for dates. Then one day… she let it slip. Mentioned offhand to Poppy I’d been seeing someone. Poppy *erupted*.
“You’re just like him!” she screamed. “You lied! You’re a hypocrite!”
I stood there, wordless. My girl, my pride, hurling words like knives—each one striking bone. Alfie? Just walked to his room. Barely speaks to me now.
I tried explaining. That I’m still their mum. That I’m human, that I need warmth too. That James is kind, wants no one’s place—just to be near. Poppy won’t listen. To her, I’m a traitor.
James wants to move in. Wants to marry. Build a future. And I’m… stuck. Because my daughter’s given an ultimatum: him or us. And I’m tearing in two.
My heart whispers—*you deserve love*. Motherhood roars—*the kids come first*. But am I not a person too? Or is being a good mum just… forgetting you’re a woman?
I’m scared. Scared to miss my last shot at happiness. Scared to fail them. Scared to end up alone. And time’s running out…
What do I do? How do I make them see I can be their mum *and* love someone? How do I not lose myself to the people I’ve lived and breathed and fought for all these years?
Girls who’ve been here—*tell me*. Maybe you know the way. Because I… I’m tired of being a ghost.
