“Oh, Veronica, hello, love! Come to see your mum?” called out the elderly neighbour, cracking open her balcony window.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. Yes, just popped in for a visit,” the girl nodded.
“Do have a word with her, dear. Since the divorce, she’s been completely off the rails…” The neighbour shook her head disapprovingly. “I wake up early, you see—insomnia. Just this morning, I glanced out at half-five, and there she was, only just getting home! In a cab, full makeup, hair down… and not sober, I can tell you. The whole street’s talking. What’s she playing at, at her age? And throwing away her husband like that—Robert’s a good man. He slipped up, sure. But twenty years together? That’s not an age to be running wild!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” Veronica said tightly, pressing her lips together. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Do, please. You’ve got your wedding coming up, and the last thing you need is your mother making a spectacle of herself…”
Veronica hurried past, her chest tightening. She *would* talk to her mother—now even more firmly.
Six months ago, her mum, Margaret, had caught her father cheating—and without hesitation, filed for divorce. Veronica had begged her to forgive him. People make mistakes, after all—twenty years of marriage shouldn’t just be tossed aside! They’d been through everything—mortgages, illnesses, moves across town, even Veronica’s own difficult teenage years.
But had Margaret settled quietly into divorced life? Not a chance. Suddenly, she was acting like she was twenty-five again. New haircut, trendy clothes, gym sessions, dance classes, cafés and bars. Out till dawn with friends, hitting concerts, posting photos with cocktails and live music in the background…
Veronica cringed even thinking about it. She was engaged—wedding soon, children after. How could she explain to her future in-laws that her mother was gallivanting about like a university student? What kind of grandmother behaved like that?
Walking into the flat, everything grated on her—the perfume in the air, the music drifting from the kitchen where something sizzled in a pan. Then came the voice:
“Veronica, love! So glad you’re here. Just put the kettle on.”
Margaret looked radiant. For a woman in her fifties—hardly a wrinkle, a trim figure, freshly done makeup, neatly styled hair, manicured nails. No ratty old dressing gown, but a smart beige loungewear set. She looked… well-kept. Happy. And that only stoked Veronica’s frustration.
“How’s everything with Edward? All on track?” Margaret asked warmly, handing her tea and biscuits.
“Fine,” Veronica nodded. “And you?”
“Brilliant! The girls and I had such a laugh last night—dancing, then karaoke… Feels good to be alive.”
“I heard. Mrs. Thompson mentioned you rolled in at five in the morning. And… not exactly sober.”
“Oh, Martha, of course,” Margaret scoffed. “Not sober—shock horror. We weren’t drinking water, were we? Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Mum…” Veronica took a steadying breath. “Don’t you think you’re taking this too far?”
“How so?”
“You’re not twenty anymore, clubbing like that. And with Dad… you two were together for decades. Splitting up at your age just seems… well, odd.”
Margaret set her cup down and studied her daughter.
“Veronica, I’m fifty. Not dead. I take care of myself, I’ve got energy, I’ve got plans. I won’t fade into the background like some old spinster.”
“Mum, you’re about to be a grandmother!” Veronica burst out. “I want kids—how do I bring them here if you’re out till dawn?”
“Why should I stop being *me* just because you’re getting married? Am I just an accessory to your life now? I spent *years* living for the family. For you, for your father. He got to have his fun—why can’t I have mine?”
“But it’s…” Veronica faltered. “It’s not dignified.”
“You think I care about dignity *now*? I want to *live*. To laugh, to feel, to try new things. I’m not senile—I’ve just remembered what it’s like to be *myself*. And if you’re ashamed—don’t invite me to the wedding. I won’t wear some frumpy suit and perm my hair for your sake. I’ll dress how I like. And I’ll dance. Might even steal one of your bridesmaids’ dates—who knows?”
“Mum, don’t be ridiculous,” Veronica muttered, already sensing defeat.
“Then don’t tell me how to live. I’m doing this for *me*, for once.”
Leaving the flat, Veronica felt hollow. Words failed her. The tangled thoughts ached. It hurt, somehow—realising how unhappy her mother must have been all this time. Bearing betrayal silently. Letting the roles of wife and mother erase the woman beneath.
“She’s finally breathing,” Edward said that evening after listening. “She’s earned that. And your dad… well, he brought it on himself. Honestly? I like your mum. Bright, strong, alive.”
“I just wanted… balance.”
“She wants something else. Let her be.”
The next weekend, Veronica called.
“Mum, hi. Fancy a spa day? Then that jazz bar—looks cosy.”
“I thought I embarrassed you,” Margaret said lightly.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re my little sister. No one’ll believe you’re my mother anyway.”
Her laughter was warm, bright.
“Go on, then. But we’re not leaving early.”
They had a wonderful evening. Talked, laughed. For the first time in years, Veronica saw her mother—not just as Mum, but as a woman. Real. Strong. Alive. Smiling.
And for the first time, she wondered—maybe she had something to learn from her. Because living for others mattered. But living for yourself? Just as much.
