“Mummy’s Sacrifice”
The words echoed in her mind like a cruel joke. *”My father’s a successful man, but Mum never accomplished anything—just a dull old hen.”* That girl on the bus had no idea, but it might as well have been about her.
Emily sat at Claire’s kitchen table, tears streaming freely. A week ago, her husband had left, and now the dam had burst. They weren’t close friends—just neighbours who’d bonded over prams and playgrounds eighteen years ago when they’d both moved to the same leafy London suburb.
Claire, unlike Emily, had gone back to work when her son was just six months old. Now, all these years later, that fateful chat in Hyde Park came rushing back.
*”You’re really going back? But who’ll look after the baby?”* Emily’s voice had wavered between concern and curiosity.
*”A nanny will come mornings,”* Claire replied. *”Finance laws change fast—if I drop out now, my boss will replace me. And honestly, I don’t want to lose my position. Finding a decent manager later? Near impossible.”*
*”James says I should stay home with Oliver. That my career can wait…”*
*”Careers don’t wait, Em. My husband wants a housewife too. But I know my field—miss three years, and you’re scrambling. Miss five? You’re finished.”*
*”But they’re so little,”* Emily sighed. *”Leaving him with a stranger feels wrong. Every article says babies need their mums till they’re three.”*
*”I think that’s rubbish. What matters more is a mother who’s happy. Kids thrive when they see their mum handling life. The rest is just noise.”*
*”I don’t know… I’ve decided to stay with Ollie till nursery at least. James earns enough—”*
*”That’s lovely, Em, but men get used to being waited on hand and foot. My mum did it—said melting into the family was the biggest mistake she ever made.”*
*”I won’t mooch off James forever. Once Oliver’s older, I’ll work again.”*
But maternity leave stretched into years. Then came a daughter, more chores, more exhaustion. James never lifted a finger—*”Child-rearing’s women’s work,”* he’d say. The one time she mentioned part-time work, he scoffed: *”You’ve lost the plot. You’ve a home, kids. D’you think I want a knackered wife? Don’t I provide enough?”*
By the time her youngest started school, Emily tried returning to architecture. But the industry had moved on—3D modelling, former colleagues now directors, her skills outdated. Interviewers eyed her coldly: *”Ten years out of the field…”* No one cared she’d graduated top of her class at Cambridge, worked on landmark projects before thirty. That was history. Now? Her kids took her for granted. James was clearly cheating—where would a housewife go, anyway?
When she finally confronted him, he shrugged. *”You chose this.”*
***
Claire, meanwhile, juggled career and motherhood. Exhausted, guilt-ridden (*”I’m a terrible mum”*), she endured her husband’s barbed remarks: *”My mum managed everything. You care more about your job than us.”* After fifteen years, he left.
*”You can’t even make dinner! At least Jessica—”*
*”Jessica from HR?”* Claire cut in. *”I’ve been meaning to ask.”*
He flushed. She exhaled. *”Good luck to you both. Just pay the child support on time.”*
*”Your career ruined us,”* he spat, slamming his keys down.
She looked up, steady. *”No. You ruined us by refusing to let me be myself.”*
At forty-five, divorce didn’t break her—it freed her. Yes, she hadn’t scaled corporate heights, but she was respected, well-paid. Her daughter, once resentful of missed school plays, now knew: Mum was busy, but always there when it counted.
Emily once believed sacrificing everything saved her marriage. But once the kids left for uni, James bolted to his assistant. At least he left her the Kensington flat and some cash. That’s when she called Claire—and overheard that girl’s callous words on the Tube. *”Nothing achieved?”* She wanted to scream: *Who fed you? Clothed you? Half your father’s success was her labour!* But what good would it do? Kids weren’t trophies. They grew. They left.
Claire let her talk for hours. Grief needed airing before healing could begin. When Emily finally whispered, *”You were right. I should’ve kept working, not become their maid,”* Claire chuckled.
*”Don’t exaggerate. My ex left sooner—whined I wasn’t servile enough. Last I heard, his new wife’s on her third designer handbag this year. He never bought me so much as a cuppa.”*
*”The kids, Claire… I’m lucky if they ring fortnightly.”*
*”That’s brilliant! Means they’re fine and you can finally live.* Listen—a mate’s taking an estate agent course. Age is an *advantage* there. You’ve an architecture degree—know a terrace from a semi, yeah? There’s your start. Fancy it? I’ll front the course fee. Pay me back when you’re rolling in commissions.”*
*”I’m terrified…”*
*”You should be terrified of rotting alone with no purpose. You’ve given enough. They don’t need you now. Fancy clients, fat cheques—maybe even a new man?”*
*”God, no more husbands!”*
*”Hah! I quite fancy being married to myself.”*
Persuaded, then.
And d’you know? Eighteen months later, Emily sold her first Cotswolds manor.
Then—more. Success bred confidence. Five years on, she remarried. When asked what he saw in *”a middle-aged estate agent,”* her new husband grinned: *”The guts to start over.”*
On her wedding day, she and Claire laughed about that long-ago park bench. Two young mums. Two prams. Two paths.
*”We both won,”* Emily whispered.
Claire nodded.
