“Mum’s Sacrifices”
“You know, I overheard a girl on the bus today,” Charlotte sighed, twisting her tea cup between her fingers. “She said, ‘My father’s a successful man, but Mum never achieved anything—just a boring housewife.’ And I realised… that’s me.”
She sat across from Emily at the kitchen table, tears spilling freely. A week ago, her husband had walked out, leaving her gasping for air. They weren’t close friends—just neighbours who’d bonded over prams and playgrounds when they’d both moved into the leafy London suburb. Their daughters, born weeks apart, had been the reason they met.
Emily had gone back to work when her daughter was six months old. Now, eighteen years later, Charlotte remembered the conversation that had haunted her ever since.
“You’re really returning to work?” Charlotte had asked, worry threading her voice. “But who’ll look after Lily?”
“A nanny for half-days,” Emily replied. “The legal landscape shifts too fast—if I step back now, my boss will replace me. Besides, I like my job. Decent managers aren’t easy to find.”
“Robert says I should be home with Sophie. That my career can wait…”
“Careers wait for no one, Char. My husband wanted a stay-at-home wife too, but I trained as a solicitor—if you step away for three years, you’re behind. Five? You’re finished.”
“But they’re so little,” Charlotte whispered. “It feels wrong, leaving them with strangers. All the parenting blogs say babies need their mothers.”
“I think a happy mother matters more.” Emily’s voice was firm. “Children thrive when they see you thriving. The rest is just noise.”
Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know. I’ll stay home until Sophie starts nursery. Robert earns enough—”
“That’s lovely,” Emily cut in gently. “But men grow accustomed to being waited on. My mum warned me never to vanish into the family. You’ll never claw your way back out.”
“I won’t be idle forever! Once Sophie’s older, I’ll work again.”
But maternity leave stretched into years. Then came another baby, more chores, Robert’s indifference—”Childraising is women’s work,” he’d scoff if she asked for help. When she tentatively mentioned part-time work, he scoffed: “Don’t be absurd. The house, the kids—I won’t have a haggard wife. Aren’t I providing enough?”
By the time their youngest started school, Charlotte tried returning to her old architectural firm. But they’d moved to 3D modelling software she didn’t recognise. Her colleagues had climbed the ladder; her skills were relics. Interviewers barely hid their disdain: “You’ve been out of the game a decade…”
No one cared she’d graduated with honours, designed award-winning buildings by twenty-eight. The past meant nothing. Her children took her for granted. Robert, meanwhile, swanned about with his mistress, smug in the knowledge his unemployed wife couldn’t leave.
“You chose this life,” he said when she confronted him.
***
Emily, meanwhile, juggled court dates and school plays. She burned the candle at both ends, guilt gnawing at her: “I’m a terrible mother.” Her husband sneered, “My mum managed just fine. You prioritise your job.” After fifteen years, he left—”You can’t even cook dinner anymore. Olivia at least—”
“Olivia from HR?” Emily’s laugh was razor-sharp. “I wondered.”
Silence. Then, calmly: “Good luck. Just pay your child support.”
“You destroyed this family with your career,” James spat.
She lifted her chin. “No. You destroyed it by refusing to let me be myself.”
She was forty-five—free.
Charlotte had clung to the delusion her sacrifice saved her marriage. But the moment their daughters left for university, Robert vanished, leaving only the flat and a meagre allowance. That’s when she called Emily, shaking. Then that girl on the bus—”Mum never achieved anything”—twisting the knife.
She wanted to scream: *Nothing? Who raised you? Who fed your father’s success?* But what good would it do? Children weren’t achievements. They grew. They left.
Emily let her sob it out—every betrayal, every fear. Only then did she say:
“You were right! I should’ve kept working, not become their servant!”
Emily snorted. “My husband left *because* I refused to be one. Last I heard, his new wife’s on her third designer handbag this year.”
“And the girls… Barely call twice a month.”
“Good. They’re happy. Now focus on *you*.” Emily leaned in. “There’s a course—estate agent training. Perfect for architects. You’d excel.”
Charlotte hesitated. “It’s terrifying…”
“More terrifying than rotting alone?” Emily’s eyes flashed. “You’ve given enough. Time to live.”
She agreed.
Eighteen months later, Charlotte sold her first Surrey mansion.
Then—more sales, sharper suits, brighter eyes. She met her second husband at a property auction. When asked what he saw in a “middle-aged estate agent,” he grinned: “The courage to start over.”
On her wedding day, Charlotte and Emily laughed, remembering two young mums in the park. Two prams. Two paths.
“We both won,” Charlotte whispered.
Emily nodded.
