“Because I have lived long enough for others. It’s time to live for myself.”
That’s all she said. And her voice, once warm and gentle, now sounded… calm. Too calm.
I felt my chest tighten. I was staring at the phone screen, as if some regret, hesitation, or trace of remorse could be read there. But she said nothing more. Silence. Just the waves and the laughter of others in the background.
— Mother… but I am your child… Don’t you think that…
— That I have done enough? — she interrupted me. — I gave you everything I had until you finished college. I raised you alone, worked nights so you would lack nothing. Now… I am living my life.
There was no more to say. She hung up.
I was left alone in a poorly lit kitchen, with unwashed dishes and my child sleeping in the other room, his stomach only half full. And I cried. Not out of anger. But out of helplessness. Out of shame.
In my mind, a parent was that support that never disappears. That, when you fall, extends a hand without questions. That comes with a bag of potatoes, with a bill slipped into your pocket, saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.”
But maybe… maybe I am wrong.
The next day, while taking my son to kindergarten, I passed by an elderly neighbor, Aunt Margareta. She was sitting on a bench, with a handkerchief in her lap, staring into space.
— How are you, Aunt Marga?
— Oh, girl… I’m not doing anything anymore. Ever since the kids left for abroad, I feel like I have no purpose. I gave them everything. The house, the money, the land. And now… not even a phone call.
A knot formed in my throat. I walked on, but her words stuck in my mind. Is that what “good” mothers looked like? Those who give everything?
Maybe my mother refuses to repeat the mistakes of others. Maybe “living for yourself” is not selfishness, but survival.
In the evening, I opened the fridge and made a soup from what I had left. I set the table and looked at my child. Thin, but with bright eyes.
— What’s wrong, mommy?
— Nothing. I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I opened my laptop and started searching. Support programs for single mothers. A side job, maybe something to do from home. I began to write. To tell my story. To ask for help — but not for money. For advice. For encouragement.
And they came. Dozens of women, some like me, others worse off, all with stories. Some lost their mothers early, others never had support. But they all told me the same thing:
“Maybe your mother doesn’t help you anymore. But now it’s your turn to be a mother. And to make your child a person who will never be left to drown.”
It was hard for me to accept that my mother chose to live. But maybe, in her own way, she showed me how to fight.
I no longer expect phone calls or money. But I know one thing: I will never let my child feel what I felt then, when the waves of Greece sounded louder than a mother’s heart.
Because true old age is not about age. It’s the moment you stop loving.
And I, no matter how hard it is for me… will never stop.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
