At 68, Anna had reached an age where society often expects one to have lived enough, understood everything, and found peace within. Yet, there was an echo inside her—a silent, piercing cry, weary and unrelenting. For too long, she had been an extension of the lives of others, and now, she was tired of it. Tired of being convenient only when she could be exploited. For the first time in her life, Anna wanted—not just wanted, but demanded—to live for herself.
For as long as she could remember, Anna had lived for others. She had cared for her parents, then for her husband, then for her daughter and her grandchildren. Every desire of hers was pushed aside for the sake of others: “When my daughter is grown up, then…”; “When I retire, then…” Now, she was retired, but it felt like that “then” had never come—not for her. For others, though, she was still just a resource to be used.
She had quit her job. For good. Before retirement, Anna had worked as an accountant in a local clinic. And, to be honest, she had hated that job with all her heart. Not because she was incapable but because she had always dreamed of something else. She wanted to paint, to travel at least through Italy, to live in a small house by the woods where, in the morning, she would hear birds, not buses under the window.
Instead, it was office work, charts, reports, and chaos. And, of course, her daughter with her endless demands: “Mom, take care of… Mom, stay with… Mom, help me…” Anna had done it all. She gave her daughter half of her pension because she and her husband had “difficulties.” She had looked after the grandchildren when they “couldn’t manage.” She cooked, cleaned, ironed, and ran around the city whenever anyone had a cold or a stomach ache.
All of it was done with love. Sincerely. Because it was family, because they were her loved ones. Because she thought it was the right thing to do.
But one day, Anna woke up—literally woke up—and realized: she couldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t want to. She was tired. She had lived for six decades, but she could not remember her own happiness. Her own, personal happiness.
She told her daughter that she no longer worked. That she had decided to focus on herself. Her daughter’s face at that moment would stay with Anna forever. No, she didn’t throw a tantrum, but her eyes… There was resentment. Even contempt. As if Anna had betrayed her, as if she had no right to a life of her own.
“So no more money?” her daughter asked bluntly.
Anna nodded silently.
“And what am I supposed to do? We counted on your help!”
“You have a husband,” Anna replied. “I raised you, supported you, helped you. Now it’s my turn. I won’t live forever. It’s time for you to learn to manage without me.”
Since then, things had changed. Her daughter became cold. She called less. And the other day, she told Anna that she would start working again and said, “Mom, you’re at home, so stay with the kids.” And Anna did. One day. Two. But on the third day, the complaints came—because she hadn’t fed them as she wanted, because she hadn’t dressed them properly, because she hadn’t cleaned everything. Once again, it was her fault. Once again, no gratitude, only reproach.
And Anna said, “Enough.” She wasn’t going to do it anymore. She wasn’t a nanny, a housekeeper, or a free service. She was a woman. Old, yes, but alive. And, strangely, she too had desires. Dreams. Fatigue. And the right—to live in peace.
Now, Anna went to the park every day. She drank coffee on the balcony. She embroidered. She read the books she had put off for her entire life. Sometimes she went out with friends, enjoying the simple pleasure of living for herself.
As the days passed, Anna felt a strange sense of freedom. At first, she was hesitant, unsure of how to fill her days. It was a new chapter, one she had longed for but had never truly experienced. She began to explore her old hobbies. She started painting again—something she had abandoned long ago when life had taken over. Each stroke of the brush brought a sense of peace, a feeling of rediscovery.
She enrolled in a local art class, something she had always dreamed of but had never had the time for. There, she met other women her age, all looking for their own paths after years of living for others. It was liberating to be around people who shared similar stories and desires. The bond that formed among them was like a quiet support system, where each woman learned to reclaim her space and her desires.
Anna also began to travel, just as she had always wanted to. She visited small towns in Italy, immersing herself in the beauty of the landscapes and the art that had inspired her throughout her life. She sat in cafes, watched sunsets, and allowed herself to simply be. For the first time in years, she felt the weight of her own desires, and it was nothing short of exhilarating.
One sunny afternoon, Anna sat on a bench in the park, watching the children play. She noticed her daughter walking toward her, looking hesitant but determined. The years had taken their toll, and the relationship between them had been strained, but there was something in her daughter’s eyes that was different now—an understanding.
“I’ve been thinking,” her daughter began, sitting beside her. “Maybe I’ve taken you for granted. I didn’t realize… how much you gave up for us.”
Anna smiled softly. “It’s never too late to start living for yourself, dear. I’m glad you’re starting to see that.”
Her daughter nodded, a flicker of recognition in her gaze. They didn’t need to say more. The silence between them was filled with mutual understanding—of the past, of the future, and of the small steps they would take together, with respect for each other’s space and dreams.
Anna stood up, stretching her arms toward the sky. “I’m going to paint,” she said with a grin, and for the first time in a long time, she felt free.
As she walked away, she realized that reclaiming her life didn’t mean leaving others behind. It meant finding peace within herself, knowing that her desires were just as important as anyone else’s. And in that moment, Anna knew she was finally living the life she had always deserved.