“I Just Want to Live for Myself”
“Oh, Veronica, hello, love! Come to visit your mum?” The elderly neighbor leaned out of her window, adjusting her glasses with a knowing look.
“Good afternoon, Margaret. Yes, just popped in,” Veronica nodded, forcing a polite smile.
“Do have a word with her, dear. She’s been absolutely wild since the divorce…” Margaret tutted, shaking her head. “I’m up early with my arthritis, you see. This morning, at half five, I looked out and there she was—just toddling home in a taxi! Full makeup, hair down, and—between you and me—not entirely sober. The whole street’s talking. At her age! And she’s thrown away a good man. Thomas was lovely. So what if he stumbled? Twenty-odd years together—you don’t just pack it in over a silly mistake.”
“Thanks, Margaret,” Veronica said tightly. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Do. You’ve got your wedding coming up, and the last thing you need is your mum becoming the neighborhood scandal…”
Veronica hurried past, her stomach knotting. She *would* talk to her mother—now with twice the determination.
Six months ago, her mum, Linda, had caught her father cheating. No discussion, no second chances—just straight to divorce. Veronica had begged her to reconsider. A midlife crisis, a foolish fling—it didn’t undo decades of marriage! They’d been through it all: the mortgage, illnesses, moving house, even Veronica’s own teenage dramatics.
But no. Instead of quietly grieving, Linda had decided to live like she was twenty-five again. New hairstyle, gym memberships, nights out dancing, posting cocktails on Instagram with strangers at jazz bars…
It made Veronica cringe. She was about to marry James, start a family. How would she explain to his parents that her mother was out clubbing till dawn? Grandmothers were supposed to bake biscuits, not embarrass everyone on social media.
Walking into the flat, everything grated—the perfume, the music blaring from the kitchen where something sizzled. Then came the voice:
“Ronnie! Love, you’re here! Perfect timing—kettle’s just boiled.”
Linda looked radiant. At fifty, she had barely a wrinkle, her figure toned, hair glossy, nails done. She wore a chic loungewear set, not a moth-eaten dressing gown. She looked… happy. And that only annoyed Veronica more.
“How’s wedding planning?” Linda asked, handing her tea and digestives.
“Fine,” Veronica muttered. “And you?”
“Brilliant! Went out with the girls last night—dancing, then karaoke. Felt like my old self again.”
“So I’ve heard. Margaret saw you rolling in at sunrise. *Apparently*, not entirely sober.”
“Oh, trust Margaret,” Linda snorted. “Of course I wasn’t sober. We weren’t sipping tap water in the pub, were we? I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Mum…” Veronica took a steadying breath. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?”
“How d’you mean?”
“You’re not twenty. Clubbing? And divorcing Dad after all those years… it’s just *odd*.”
Linda set her cup down, eyes sharp.
“Veronica, I’m fifty. Not dead. I’m fit, healthy, and I’ve got plans. I won’t fade into the wallpaper just because you’re getting married.”
“You’ll be a *grandmother* soon! How can I bring kids round if you’re out all night?”
“Why should I stop being *me* because you’ve chosen a white dress? I’ve spent decades as ‘someone’s wife,’ ‘someone’s mum.’ Your father got to have his fun—why can’t I?”
“But it’s…” Veronica faltered. “*Undignified*.”
“Dignity’s overrated. I want to *live*. And if you’re ashamed, don’t invite me to the wedding. I won’t wear beige and perm my hair to suit you. I’ll dance, I’ll drink, and who knows—I might even flirt with the best man.”
“Mum, don’t be ridiculous,” Veronica groaned, realizing she’d lost.
“Then don’t tell me how to live. I *finally* want to live for *me*.”
Veronica left the flat feeling hollow. Words failed her. It ached, realizing how unhappy her mother must’ve been—silently enduring, erased by the roles of wife and mother.
“She’s finally breathing,” James said that evening, listening. “She’s earned it. And your dad… well, he made his bed.” He grinned. “Honestly, I like your mum. She’s fierce.”
“I just wish she’d… *tone it down*.”
“She doesn’t want to. Let her be.”
The next weekend, Veronica called.
“Mum… spa day? And then that wine bar with live music? It looks cozy.”
“Thought I embarrassed you,” Linda teased.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re my younger sister. No one’ll believe you’re my mum anyway.”
Her mother’s laugh was bright.
“Fine, you win. But we’re not leaving till midnight.”
They had a glorious evening. Talking, laughing. For the first time in years, Veronica saw her mother not just as Mum—but as Linda. Vibrant. Unapologetic. *Alive*.
And it struck her: maybe she could learn a thing or two. Living for others mattered. But living for yourself? That did too.