Right, so I overheard this chat on the bus the other day—some girl saying to someone, “My dad’s so successful, but Mum’s just achieved nothing, boring old housewife.” And it hit me—that could’ve been me.
Emily was sitting in Olivia’s kitchen, not even bothering to wipe her tears. A week ago, her husband had left, and she just needed to let it all out. They weren’t best mates, just neighbours who got close over the years. They’d met ages ago, pushing prams in the park—both had kids the same age, lived in the same neighbourhood in Manchester.
Olivia, unlike Emily, had gone back to work when her son was six months old. Eighteen years later, they found themselves remembering that exact conversation in the park.
“You’re really going back to work? Who’s going to look after the baby?” Emily had asked, equal parts curious and worried.
“A childminder’s coming in for half-days,” Olivia had replied. “The field moves fast—if I drop out now, the boss’ll hire another accountant. Plus, I don’t want to lose this job. Decent bosses don’t grow on trees.”
“My Tom says I should stay with little Henry—that my career can wait…”
“Careers don’t wait for anyone, Em. My bloke wanted a stay-at-home wife too, but I know my job. Miss three years, and you’re playing catch-up. Miss five? You might as well be starting from scratch.”
“But they’re so little,” Emily sighed. “I can’t just hand him over to some stranger. All the parenting magazines say kids need their mum till they’re three.”
“Honestly? I think that’s rubbish. What matters more is if the mum’s happy. If a kid sees their mother thriving, they’ll be fine too. The rest? Just noise.”
“Well, I’ve decided to stay home with Henry till he starts nursery. Tom earns enough…”
“That’s great, Em, but men get used to being waited on hand and foot. My mum did it—spent her whole life putting the family first. Always said you shouldn’t lose yourself like that.”
“I’m not planning to mooch off Tom forever. Once Henry’s older, I’ll work again.”
But the years slipped by. Four years later, Emily had a daughter, and the load only got heavier. Tom never lifted a finger—he genuinely believed parenting was women’s work, and his job was just to bring in the cash. The one time she mentioned part-time work, he scoffed:
“Are you mad? You’ve got a home, kids—why would I want some exhausted wife running around? Don’t I provide enough?”
When her youngest started school, Emily finally tried getting back into architecture. But the industry had moved on—now everything was 3D modelling, programmes she didn’t know. Old colleagues had climbed the ladder; her experience was practically ancient. Worse, interviewers bluntly asked, “You’ve been out of the game for ten years…”
Nobody cared that she’d graduated with honours, worked at a top firm in London, or worked on big projects before 30. That was history. Now? Her kids took her for granted, and Tom was clearly having an affair—knowing full well she’d never leave. She was financially trapped.
Once, she tried shaming him. He just shrugged. “You chose this life.”
***
Meanwhile, Olivia juggled work and motherhood. It was exhausting, and she constantly felt guilty—“I’m a rubbish mum.” Her husband’s refrain? “My mum managed everything—you just care more about your job.”
After 15 years, he left.
“You can’t even get dinner on the table! Sophie at least—”
“Sophie—from HR?” Olivia cut in. “Been meaning to ask.”
He went quiet. She just nodded. “Good luck to you both. Just pay the child support.”
“You wrecked our family with your career,” he snapped, tossing his keys down.
Olivia looked up slowly. “No. You wrecked it by expecting me to be less than I am.”
She was 45 when it happened. Instead of crumbling, she felt relief. Good riddance. If he wanted some “simpler” woman? Fine. She wasn’t some high-flyer, but she was good at her job, earning enough to keep them comfortable. Her daughter might’ve sulked when she missed school plays, but now she knew—Mum was busy, but always had her back.
For years, Emily thought sacrificing everything had saved her marriage. But once the kids left for uni, Tom ditched her for his assistant. At least he left her the house and some money. That’s when she called Olivia—and then, like fate, that girl on the bus: “My mum achieved nothing.” She wanted to snap, “Nothing? Who raised you? Who made your dad’s success possible?” But what was the point? Kids don’t see it. And now even her husband had gone…
Olivia let her talk, cry, rage. Only after could she say:
“You were right! I should’ve gone back to work, not turned into a glorified maid.”
“Oh, come off it. My ex left sooner because I wasn’t ‘maid’ enough. Last I heard, his new wife’s on her third designer handbag this year. Never bought me one…”
“And the kids, Liv… I’m lucky if they call fortnightly.”
“Brilliant! Means they’re fine—now focus on you. Listen, my mate’s doing an estate agent course. Age is an asset there. You’ve got an architecture degree—property’s not alien, yeah? You’ve got a head start. Fancy it? I’ll lend you the course fee—pay me back when you’re rolling in it.”
“Dunno… feels scary.”
“Scarier than being broke and bored? You’ve given them everything—time to take something back. Estate agents get great clients. Might even meet someone.”
“God, no more husbands.”
“Ha! I quite fancy being married to myself.”
Long story short? Eighteen months later, Emily sold her first country house.
It only got better. She loved the work, thrived. Five years on, she met her second husband. When someone asked why he’d chosen an “older estate agent,” he said, “I admire someone brave enough to start over.”
On her wedding day, she and Olivia laughed about that park bench years ago. Two young mums. Two prams. Two paths.
“We both won,” Emily whispered.
Olivia just smiled and nodded.
