12November2025
Today I found myself drifting back to the days when Emily Smith and I were inseparable. We were just two girls from the same culdesac in York, sharing secrets after school, swapping dreams over a packet of biscuits, and laughing until our sides hurt. Our friendship seemed as simple and warm as a freshly brewed cup of tea, without any hidden agendas.
As we grew older, something became painfully clear: even when families look alike on the surface, the way love is expressed can be worlds apart.
Emilys mother, Margaret Smith, lived entirely for her children. She was constantly on the goworking double shifts at the local factory, barely pausing for a breath, and never, ever putting herself first. When she bought a treat, it was always for the kids; she never snatched a chocolate for herself. If anyone asked for help, she would drop everything, even when she was on her own two feet. Her refrain was always the same: What matters is that the children are happy. Me later. I dont need anything now.
Harriet Browns mother, Elaine Brown, was different. She also worked hard, loved her brood, but she did so with a quieter, more measured calm. After a long day at the bookshop on the High Street, she wouldnt rush straight to the kitchen. Instead she would set the kettle, sit by the window, and tell us, Give me a momentI need a little time for myself. She turned on the soft radio, broke a piece of chocolate in half, and offered, Lets have tea together. You need a rested mum, not a exhausted one.
Back then I struggled to understand. I had been taught that true love meant a mother should forget herself, sacrifice everything for her childrenafter all, a mothers love is selfsacrifice.
Years have slipped by. Emily moved to Bristol, Harriet stayed in Bath, but the memories lingered, and with time the contrast between their mothers lives became unmistakable.
Margarets relentless giving left her burnt out. The constant pressure, the endless worries, and the feeling that her own life belonged to everyone else but her own, drained her completely. She found no time for rest, for pleasure, not even for her health.
Elaine, on the other hand, learned to protect her own wellbeing. She still laughed, travelled, greeted each sunrise, tended to her grandchildren, baked pies and, even after turning sixty, would say, Im fine because Im happy, and my children feel that happiness too.
Whenever asked for her secret, she simply replied, A happy mother is the best gift a child can have.
We often confuse love with exhaustion, believing that caring always means putting ourselves last. But love also means looking after ourselves. Only a calm, rested, smiling mother can give her children a warmth that comforts rather than scorches.
When a mother forgets herself, the world around her dims. When she carves out a little peace for herself, the house fills with laughter, the scent of tea, and the sweet smell of chocolate. That is when children learn the most important lesson: to love themselves, to rest without shame, and to live in harmony.
So Ill remind myself: drink tea slowly, savor each sip; laugh for no reason; buy a chocolate bar just for me; and never wait for permission to rest.
After all, a family starts with a mother, and a mother begins with her own happiness.
