Mum’s Achievements
“You’ll never guess what I overheard on the bus today,” Emma said, stirring her tea. “Some young woman was telling someone, ‘My dad’s so successful, but Mum? She never did anything with her life—just a boring housewife.’ And I thought—that could’ve been me.”
She sat at Sophie’s kitchen table, tears streaming freely. A week ago, her husband had walked out, and she desperately needed someone to pour her heart out to.
They weren’t exactly close—just neighbours who’d bonded over prams in the park years ago, their kids the same age, living in adjacent terraces.
Sophie, unlike Emma, had gone back to work when her son was six months old. Now, eighteen years later, they found themselves replaying that fateful conversation.
“You’re really going back to work?” Emma had asked, curiosity laced with worry. “But who’ll look after the baby?”
“A nanny will cover half-days,” Sophie replied. “If I drop out now, someone else will take my accounting job. And let’s be honest, decent bosses don’t grow on trees.”
“My Tom says I should stay home with Oliver. That my career can wait…”
“Careers don’t wait for anyone, Em. My bloke wanted a stay-at-home wife too. But if I skip three years, I’ll be playing catch-up forever.”
“But they’re so little,” Emma sighed. “I’d hate to leave him with a stranger. All the parenting blogs say babies need Mum till they’re three!”
“Honestly? I think that’s bollocks. A happy mum makes for a happy kid. The rest is just noise.”
“Well, I’ve decided to stay with Ollie till nursery at least. Tom earns enough…”
“Lovely for him,” Sophie muttered. “Just remember—men get used to being waited on. My mum always said, ‘Don’t disappear into your family.’”
“Oh, I won’t be a freeloader! Once Oliver’s older, I’ll work again.”
Except maternity leave stretched on. Four years later, Emma had a daughter, and life got busier. Tom didn’t lift a finger—childcare was “women’s work,” he insisted. His job was bringing home the bacon.
The one time she mentioned part-time work, he scoffed:
“Are you mad? You’ve got a home and kids to manage. Do I look like I want a stressed-out wife? Don’t I provide enough?”
When her youngest started school, Emma tried returning to architecture—only to find the industry now ran on 3D software she’d never used. Old colleagues had climbed the ladder while she’d been changing nappies. At interviews, recruiters bluntly asked, “You’ve been out of work for a decade?”
No one cared about her first-class degree or the high-profile projects she’d worked on. That was ancient history. Now, her kids took her for granted, and Tom was clearly having an affair—where would a housewife go, anyway?
Once, she tried shaming him. He just shrugged:
“You chose this life.”
***
Meanwhile, Sophie juggled career and parenthood. It was exhausting, guilt gnawing at her—”I’m a rubbish mum.” Her husband’s refrain? “My mum managed everything. You put work first.”
After fifteen years, he left for good:
“You can’t even cook dinner! At least Jessica—”
“Jessica from HR?” Sophie cut in. “Been meaning to ask.”
He flushed. She just smiled.
“Good luck to you both. Just keep those child support payments coming.”
“You destroyed our family with your career,” he snapped, slamming his keys down.
Sophie looked up calmly.
“No. You destroyed it by refusing to let me be myself.”
At 45, the divorce barely fazed her—in fact, she felt lighter. If he wanted a “simpler” woman, fine. Sophie knew her worth. She wasn’t some high-flyer, but she earned well, and her daughter—though annoyed at missed school plays—now admired her independence.
For a while, Emma believed sacrificing everything had saved her marriage. Then the kids left for uni, and Tom ran off with his assistant. At least he left her the house and some cash. That’s when she called Sophie, just in time to hear that girl on the bus dismiss her mother. Emma longed to retort: “Achieved nothing? Who raised you? Who made your dad’s success possible?” But what would it change? Kids grow up and leave. Now her husband had too.
Sophie let her talk it out—grief, anger, all of it. When Emma finally whispered,
“You were right all along. I should’ve kept working, not turned into their maid.”
“Oh, don’t be daft. My ex left sooner because I wasn’t maid enough. Last I heard, his new wife’s on her third designer handbag this year. He never bought me squat.”
“The kids barely call, Soph. Maybe once a fortnight.”
“Brilliant! Means they’re fine, and you’ve got time for *you*. Listen, my mate’s doing this estate agent course—perfect for your age, and you’ve got an architecture degree! That’s a head start. Fancy it? I’ll lend you the course fees—pay me back when you’re rolling in it.”
“I don’t know… It’s terrifying.”
“Love, what’s terrifying is rotting at home broke. You’ve given them everything—now *stop*. Estate agents get all sorts of clients. Might even bag a new husband.”
“God, no. Had enough of those.”
“Ha! Same. Being married to myself’s ace.”
Long story short? Within eighteen months, Emma sold her first countryside manor.
It only got better from there. And five years later? She remarried. When someone asked her husband, “What’s so special about a middle-aged estate agent?” he grinned: “The guts to start over.”
On her wedding day, Emma and Sophie laughed about that park bench all those years ago. Two mums. Two prams. Two paths.
“We both won,” Emma whispered.
Sophie nodded.
