**Mum’s Legacy**
I overheard a conversation on the bus the other day. A girl was telling someone, “My dad’s successful, but Mum never achieved anything—just a boring housewife.” And I thought—that could be me.
Emily sat at Sophie’s kitchen table, tears streaming down her cheeks. A week ago, her husband had left, and she needed someone to pour her heart out to.
They weren’t close friends, just neighbours who’d become friendly over the years. When they’d first moved into the neighbourhood, they’d met while pushing prams—their children were the same age, their homes just a few doors apart.
Sophie, unlike Emily, had gone back to work when her son was six months old. Now, eighteen years later, they both remembered that fateful conversation in the park.
“Are you really going back to work?” Emily’s voice was a mix of concern and curiosity. “Who’ll look after the baby?”
“A nanny will come for half-days,” Sophie replied. “Laws change fast—if I drop out now, my boss will hire another accountant. And I don’t want to lose my position—good bosses don’t wait around.”
“My William says I should be with Oliver. That my career can wait…”
“Careers wait for no one, Em. My husband wanted a stay-at-home wife too. But I know my field—if you’re out for three years, catching up’s hard. Five? Forget it.”
“But they’re so little,” Emily sighed. “Leaving him with a stranger feels wrong. Every article says babies need their mums like air.”
“It’s not life or death. What matters is the mother being happy. If a child sees their mum thriving, they’ll be fine too. The rest is just noise.”
“I don’t know… I want to stay with Oliver until he starts nursery. William earns enough—”
“That’s lovely, Em, but men get used to being waited on. My mum lived like that—always warned me not to disappear into family life.”
“I won’t mooch off William forever. Once Oliver’s older, I’ll work.”
But maternity leave stretched on. Four years later, Emily had a daughter—more responsibilities, no help. William believed parenting was a woman’s job; his was to earn.
When she mentioned part-time work, he scoffed: “Madness! You’ve got a home and kids. Why would I want a tired, stressed wife? Don’t I provide well enough?”
When her youngest started school, Emily tried to return to architecture. But the industry had moved on—3D programs she didn’t know, former colleagues now managers, her skills obsolete. Interviews circled one point: “You haven’t worked in a decade.”
No one cared she’d graduated top of her class, worked at a famed firm, or contributed to major projects. That was the past. Now, her kids took her for granted, and William was clearly having an affair—where would a housewife go?
Once, she confronted him. He just shrugged: “You chose this life.”
Meanwhile, Sophie juggled career and motherhood. It was exhausting—guilt gnawed at her: “I’m a bad mum.” Her husband’s refrain: “My mum managed everything. You put work first.”
After 15 years, he left: “You can’t even cook dinner! At least Jessica—”
“Jessica from HR?” Sophie cut in. “Wondered when you’d admit it.”
He stayed silent. She just nodded: “Good luck. Just pay child support on time.”
“You ruined our family with your career,” he spat, tossing his keys down.
Sophie looked up slowly: “No. You ruined it by refusing to let me be myself.”
At 45, the divorce didn’t devastate her—it was a relief. His whining had worn thin. If he wanted a “simpler” woman, fine. She was confident—not a high-flyer, but skilled, well-paid. Her daughter, though resentful of missed school events, grew up knowing her mum was busy but always there when it counted.
For a while, Emily believed sacrificing everything had saved her marriage. But once the kids left for uni, William moved in with his assistant. At least he left her the house and some money. That’s when she called Sophie, desperate to talk. Then that girl on the bus—”Mum achieved nothing”—made her ache to ask: “Nothing? Who raised you? Half your dad’s success is her doing!” But what good would it do? Kids weren’t an achievement—they grew up and left. Now her husband had too.
Sophie listened, letting Emily grieve. Only then could she move forward.
When Emily whispered, “You were right—I should’ve worked, not been their maid,” Sophie chuckled: “Don’t exaggerate. My ex left sooner because I wasn’t servile enough. He’s complaining now—his new wife’s already on her third designer handbag this year.”
“And the kids… If I’m lucky, they call fortnightly.”
“Perfect! Means they’re fine, and you can focus on yourself. A friend just took a course in estate agency—age is an asset there. You’ve got an architecture degree, so you understand property, right? A head start. Fancy it? I’ll lend you the course fees—pay me back later.”
“I don’t know… It’s scary.”
“What’s scarier, Emily? Suffering idle and broke? You’ve given them everything—enough. Estate agents meet all sorts. Might even find husband number two.”
“God, no—no more husbands!”
Sophie laughed: “Fair. I quite fancy being married to myself.”
She convinced her.
Eighteen months later, Emily sold her first country house.
It got better—her eyes brightened with each sale. Then she met her second husband. When asked, “What do you see in an older estate agent?” he said, “The courage to start over.”
At her wedding, Emily and Sophie remembered that park bench—two young mums, two prams, two paths.
“We both won,” Emily whispered.
Sophie nodded.
