*”How could you forget about us?!”* — The daughters refused to forgive their mother for daring to live for herself.
My name is Margaret, and I am sixty-two. I have spent my entire life for others—for my children, for my family, making sure everyone else was happy. Only recently did I allow myself to be… myself. But, as it turns out, not everyone is ready to accept that their mother is not just a role to be filled, but a living woman with feelings, desires, and the right to her own happiness.
This all began when I was barely in my twenties. I married young and had two beautiful daughters—Abigail and Lily. At first, everything seemed bright and simple, but soon, my husband showed his true colours. Two years after the youngest was born, he vanished. Just left—no explanation, no letters, no child support. It was just me and the girls.
I worked from dawn till dusk, struggling to keep us afloat. There were days when we had neither money nor strength. But I never complained. If it had to be done, it had to be done. The girls grew up, and I never allowed myself to falter, to fall ill, to weep—except into my pillow, late at night.
We lived in a small village, in an old cottage with a garden. When the girls grew up, they each married and moved to the city. At first, it was rented flats—owning a place of their own was just a dream. I stayed behind, alone in the house, in the quiet, living on a pension that barely covered my medicine.
Then my sister, Eleanor, called. We had never been particularly close. She had always lived differently—no husband, no children, a good job and a taste for life. I envied her in silence. She invited me to stay with her in the city—her health had taken a turn for the worse. I had no one else to turn to, so I agreed. I moved into her flat and began to care for her.
At first, her way of life shocked me. Eleanor spent money on herself—theatre tickets, new dresses, spa treatments. Even ill, she refused to stop taking care of herself. Then she said, *”If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone else. But then, the flat won’t be yours.”* She was blunt, even harsh. I was hurt, but I stayed. Because she was family. Because my conscience wouldn’t let me walk away.
A few months later, Eleanor passed. And the flat, by her will, was left to me. For the first time in my life, I had a place of my own in the city, my own home, and complete freedom. And for the first time, I realized—I didn’t want to go back. Not to that village, where everything was steeped in pain, loneliness, and hands worn rough with labour. I wanted to stay here. To live for *me.*
The girls only learned of their aunt’s death after I had already moved into the flat. They didn’t even come to the funeral—always too busy, the children, work, the mortgage. But when they found out I was keeping the flat for myself, the row erupted.
*”Mum, you have to help us!”* Abigail shouted. *”We’re drowning in mortgage payments! You could sell the flat and split the money with us!”*
*”I’m expecting my third,”* Lily sighed. *”We’re still renting—you could help us finally buy a one-bed!”*
But suddenly, I understood—I didn’t *owe* them anything. I had given those girls my youth, my health, sleepless nights, the best years of my life. Wasn’t that enough? They had their own families. I wouldn’t abandon them if disaster struck. But why must I give everything again? Why did no one ever ask—*How are you, Mum?*
I answered them, calm but firm:
*”Girls, I’m not selling the flat. I live here now. I’m happy here. I’m tired of sacrifice. I just want… to live.”*
After that, they withdrew. Stopped calling. Only a curt *”Happy Mother’s Day”* now and then—no *”Mum,”* no *”how are you,”* no *”we love you.”* Perhaps they think I’ve betrayed them. But have I not earned the right to my own happiness?
Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit by the window, sip my tea, and watch the city lights flicker. And I wonder—is it really so hard to understand? A mother is still a person. Not a duty, not a servant, not a bank. I am a woman. And even at sixty-two, I have the right to live. Not as someone’s shadow, but as myself.
Would you have done any differently in my place?