“Living for Myself”
“Sophie! Visiting your mum?” The voice came from the second-floor balcony. Sophie looked up to see Margaret Whitmore, a neighbor she’d known since childhood, leaning over the railing.
“Yes, just stopping by. How are you?” Sophie replied politely.
“Oh, surviving. But have a chat with her, love—she’s really let herself go since the divorce.”
Sophie stiffened. It stung—others judging her family so freely, without hesitation.
“This morning, I looked out the window, and there she was—stumbling out of a cab at half-five! Full slap on, hair down, heels clicking. And forgive me, but she was clearly tipsy. At her age! The neighbors are talking. I’m embarrassed for her. And was she right to kick David out? He was a decent man, just made a mistake—hardly the end of the world. Divorcing after fifty? Who does that?”
Sophie said nothing. Lips pressed tight, she climbed the stairs.
Six months ago, her mother, Evelyn Hart, had filed for divorce. Dad had cheated. For Sophie, the shock wasn’t just the affair—it was that Mum refused to forgive. Twenty-five years together. Struggles, yes, but they’d stayed. And then—snap. A suitcase, a solicitor, a stamp.
But the real quake came after. Instead of mourning, Mum booked spa days. Instead of cardigans, she wore bodycon dresses. Instead of telly nights, there were dinners, dance floors, gigs, Instagram posts with wine glasses and radiant smiles.
It made Sophie cringe. Her wedding was in months—meetings with the groom’s family. How would she explain if Mum turned up in a mini-skirt and neon streaks in her hair?
She unlocked the door. Inside, the air smelled of Chanel, coffee, and an unfamiliar spice. Mum emerged from the kitchen—sleek loungewear, bold lipstick, a fresh pixie cut. She looked… happy. And it grated.
“Darling!” Evelyn beamed. “What a surprise! Come in—I’ve just baked scones.”
“Mum, we need to talk.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“Margaret said you came home at dawn. In a cab. Drunk.”
“Bloody hell, not this again. So I had a night out. Am I meant to hide in the attic?”
“Mum, you’re fifty-two.”
“And? Should I crawl into a coffin?”
Sophie clenched her fists. “Don’t you think you’re acting… well, not your age?”
Evelyn studied her. Then she set down two teacups.
“I don’t owe anyone a performance. I’m not eighteen, no—but I’m alive. I have wants. And I’m tired of only being Mum, wife, housekeeper. Now? I’m just a woman who wants to live.”
“But you’re *my mother*!” Sophie burst. “And you’re acting like a fresher! What will James’s family say? How do I explain my mum clubbing?”
“Don’t. Don’t invite me if you’re ashamed. But know this—I won’t ask permission to be myself.”
Sophie buried her face in her hands. “You used to be different… calm, domestic. Now it’s like you’re a stranger.”
“Did it ever occur to you I was just surviving? For you. For the family. Now I want to live *for me*. I’ve no time left to wait. I want to feel, dance, laugh. And if anyone minds—let them walk a mile in my shoes.”
Silence stretched. Sophie’s throat burned. Tears threatened, but she swallowed them.
That evening, she told James everything. He listened, then chuckled.
“I like your mum. She didn’t crumble—she woke up. She’s breathing. She’s earned it. You’re just not used to seeing her as more than a servant.”
“Maybe you’re right…”
A week later, Sophie rang her mum.
“Mum, hi. Found a jazz bar. Fancy it?”
“You? With me?” Evelyn laughed.
“Yeah. I want to try… to understand you.”
“Then don’t faint if we’re out past midnight.”
“Just go easy on the gin, yeah?”
“Deal. And… thank you, darling.”
That night, they laughed till they cried, sang off-key, shared cheesecake at 4 a.m. For the first time, Sophie saw her mother—not just as Mum, but as a woman. One who’d lived for others too long. Now, at last, she was living for herself.