Mum’s Achievements
“You know, I overheard a conversation on the bus. A girl was saying to someone, ‘My dad’s successful, but Mum never achieved anything—just a boring old hen.’ And I thought… that’s me.”
Emily sat in Olivia’s kitchen, not even bothering to hold back her tears. A week ago, her husband had left, and she needed to pour her heart out to someone.
They weren’t close friends, just neighbours who’d bonded over pram-pushing years ago—their kids were the same age, and their flats were just across the street.
Olivia, unlike Emily, had gone back to work when her son was six months old. Now, eighteen years later, they both remembered *that* fateful chat in the park.
“You’re really going back to work? Who’ll look after the baby?” Emily had asked, curiosity laced with worry.
“A nanny will come mornings,” Olivia had replied. “Laws change too fast—if I drop out now, my boss will hire another accountant. And I don’t want to lose my spot. Decent managers don’t grow on trees.”
“My James says I should stay with Oliver. That my career can wait…”
“A career waits for no one, Em. My husband wanted a stay-at-home wife too. But I know my field—skip three years, and you’re playing catch-up. Skip five? You’re obsolete.”
“But they’re still so little,” Emily sighed. “I’d feel awful leaving him with a stranger. Everyone says kids need their mum like oxygen until they’re three.”
“I don’t buy that. What’s *really* important is that Mum’s happy. If a child sees their mother thriving, they thrive too. The rest is just noise.”
“I don’t know… I’ve decided to stay with Ollie at least until nursery. James earns enough—”
“Lovely for you, Em, but men get *very* used to being waited on. Good luck untangling yourself later. My mum lived like that and always said you can’t dissolve into your family completely.”
“Oh, I’m not freeloading! Once Ollie’s older, I’ll work.”
But maternity leave stretched on. Four years later, Emily had a daughter, doubling her workload. James never helped, convinced that parenting was “women’s work”—his job was to bring home a decent wage.
When she muttered, “Maybe I’ll work part-time,” he waved her off.
“Madness! You’ve got a home, kids. Why would I want an exhausted wife? Don’t I provide well enough?”
When their youngest started school, Emily finally tried returning to architecture. Turns out, everyone used 3D software now—tools she’d never learned. Old colleagues had zoomed ahead, some were directors, her experience was outdated. Worse, interviewers bluntly said, “You’ve been out ten years…”
No one cared that she’d graduated top of her class or worked at a prestigious firm on major projects before 30. Ancient history. Now, her kids took her for granted, and James? Openly cheating, lying shamelessly—where would a housewife go?
Once, she tried shaming him. He shrugged.
“You chose this life.”
***
Meanwhile, Olivia juggled career and kid. It was gruelling, guilt gnawed at her—“I’m a bad mum.” Her husband’s refrain? “*My* mother managed everything. You put work first.”
After 15 years, he left.
“You can’t even make dinner! Unlike Sophie—”
“Sophie? From HR?” Olivia cut in. “About time I asked.”
His silence said it all. She just nodded.
“Good luck. Just pay child support on time.”
“You ruined our family with your career,” he spat, tossing his keys down.
Olivia looked up slowly.
“No. *You* ruined it by deciding I couldn’t be me.”
At 45, the divorce didn’t devastate her—if anything, she exhaled. Good riddance to his whinging. He’d found a “simpler” woman? Fine. Olivia was confident. Not a high-flier, but a sought-after expert earning enough. Her daughter, though resentful of missed school plays, grew up knowing Mum was busy but always there with sharp advice.
For a while, Emily thought she’d saved her marriage by dedicating herself to family. But once the kids left for uni, James bolted for his assistant. At least he left her the flat and some cash. That’s when she rang Olivia—and then, as if scripted, overheard that girl on the bus: “Mum never achieved anything.” She’d wanted to snap, “Nothing? Who raised you? Half your dad’s success is *her* doing!” But what good would it do? Kids weren’t “achievements.” They grew up and left. So had her husband…
Olivia let Emily vent. Grief needed airing before moving on.
When Emily wailed, “You were right! I should’ve worked, not been a housemaid!”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. My ex left *because* I wasn’t servile. Last I heard, his new wife’s on her third designer handbag this year. He never bought *me* anything…”
“And the kids, Liv… If I’m lucky, they call fortnightly.”
“Brilliant! Means they’re fine and you can focus on *you*. Listen, a mate’s doing an estate agent course—age is an *advantage* there. You’ve got an architecture degree, right? Know a flat from a semi? There’s your base! Fancy it? I’ll lend you the course fee—pay me back when you’re raking it in.”
“I don’t know… It’s scary.”
“Scarier to rot broke and bored. They’ve moved on—time you did too. Clients love a mature estate agent. Might even meet Husband 2.0.”
“Ugh, no more husbands!”
“Ha! I quite fancy being married to myself.”
Long story short? Eighteen months later, Emily sold her first country house.
Then? Bigger deals, brighter spark. One day, she met her second husband. When asked, “What’s appealing about a not-so-young estate agent?” he said, “Her guts to start over.”
At her wedding, she and Olivia reminisced about that park bench. Two young mums. Two prams. Two paths.
“We both won,” Emily whispered.
Olivia grinned. “Course we did.”
