**Diary Entry**
All my life, I was nothing more than a servant to my own children. It wasn’t until I turned 48 that I truly understood what it meant to live.
Before 48, I had no idea life could taste any different. That I didn’t have to spend hours slaving over a stove, scrubbing floors on my knees, or waiting for my husband’s approval just because the house sparkled. I genuinely believed I was doing everything right—that my role was to endure, to be convenient, to sacrifice endlessly. How could it be otherwise? That’s how my mother was raised, and her mother before her, and now, me.
My name’s Margaret. I grew up in a tiny village in Yorkshire. Married at nineteen—what else was there to do? Half the girls I knew skipped university and headed straight to the registry office. I married Peter—a decent enough bloke, hardworking, no major vices. We quickly had two children, a boy and a girl. And just like that, I stopped existing as a woman, as a person. I became a shadow. A servant. Someone with endless duties but no rights.
Peter lost interest fast. “Had the kids—good job, now keep quiet and feed me.” He wasn’t violent, but he loved his pints with mates. Came home late, snapped if the kids made noise, threw me dark looks or plates if dinner wasn’t right. He worked, sure. But home was just a hotel—eat, sleep, leave. The house? My job. The kids? My job. Sickness, shopping, repairs—all mine.
When he turned forty-two, his heart gave out. Died right there at a friend’s table. Did I cry? Yes—out of fear, uncertainty, being left alone. But not grief. My grief was for the life I never had.
After he died, I tried dating again for a couple of years. But they were all the same—same demands, same entitled tone. As if a woman had no soul, only chores. I quit trying.
The kids grew up, moved away for uni. We kept in touch, barely. Then, Violet—my old schoolmate, who’d actually seen the world—reappeared. She looked at me and said, “Maggie, don’t you think you’ve hardly lived at all?”
I scoffed—what about the kids, the husband, the garden? Wasn’t that life? But Vi pushed: “Come abroad with me, just work for a bit. The kids are grown, nothing’s holding you here—breathe different air for once.” I hesitated, but I went. Saved up, learned basic Spanish, and three months later, we landed in Portugal. There, for the first time, I breathed.
It wasn’t easy at first. New climate, new people. But no judgment, no pressure. Worked as a carer for an elderly couple—kindest souls. Then a café, helping in the kitchen. I got *paid*. Held money I’d earned myself—spent it how *I* wanted. Bought my first skirt in twenty-five years. Got my hair chopped. Learned to ride a scooter. Me—a fifty-year-old woman, zipping along the coast like a teenager.
The kids begged me to come back—help with the grandkids. “It’s so hard without you, Mum,” they said. But I found the strength to say, “I’m not your nanny. I’m your mother. And now, it’s my turn.” My first real choice.
Rented a cosy flat. Adopted a terrier. Met a man—George, a widower, gentle, with warm amber eyes. He didn’t demand. Didn’t order. Just stayed when I wanted him to. I smiled in mornings instead of waking in tears.
A year later, I’d lost two stone. Hired a trainer. Cooked for *me*, not a crowd. Stopped acting like laundry was a heroic act. Stopped believing women owe the world just for existing.
Even got a tattoo—a little sparrow on my wrist. To remind me: I can fly too.
The kids were furious, especially my son. “How could you? You abandoned us, you *owe* us!” But I don’t. And I said it. I fed you, nursed you, cleaned, hugged you. Now? My turn.
Now I know: no one hands you your life—you take it. And those who truly love you won’t hate you for being free. If they do? They never loved you. Just used you.
I’m fifty-three now. Haven’t gone back to England. Send postcards. No money—they’ve got their families, their lives. And I’ve got mine.
You know what scares me most? That thousands of women still live like I did—never suspecting there’s another way. Well, there is. And no one’s walking it for you.
