Life That Could Have Been
Some mornings, when the house is unusually quiet, she sits with her cup of coffee which was brewed much earlier and feels a strange flutter in her chest. It’s not sadness exactly. Not regret either.It’s something deeper, more complicated, like a memory of a dream she once had but never quite woke up from.
She is forty eight now.A mother of two grown up children,a wife of nearly two and a half decades,a responsible daughter-in-law who has dutifully played her role.
People say she’s warm, affectionate,the kind who remembers everyone’s birthdays and favourite dishes.And yes, she cares.She cares too much sometimes.But lately she has become impatient,overtly sensitive and emotional,perhaps the perimenopause phase she is going through. She gets snappy when she’s tired,and moves restlessly when things move too slowly.She has spent so many years moving to everyone else’s rhythm that she has sometimes forgotten herself.
There was a time she imagined a different life for herself.She would daydream about corporate corridors, sleek office buildings with glass elevators, her own desk with her name on a little plate.
Life took a different turn. She chose marriage.Or maybe marriage chose her.
She doesn’t regret her children. Not for a moment. They are the center of her heart. And her husband is a good man, steady and uncomplicated. Her home is peaceful in the way middle class homes are . Predictable, safe,a little crowded with responsibilities.
Yet there are days when she feels a bit misaligned,watching life move in a straight line for everyone else while she moves in the shadows.
She lives her life through her children's achievements, celebrates her husbands progress,feels relevant through the roles she plays for others.
Occasionally,when she lies lazily on a warm couch in the house, she pictures the version of herself she could have been. She doesn’t resent her.She’s the twin she never had , the one who grew up in an entirely different dimension. She meets her in her imagination often.She travels. She speaks with confidence. She is not accountable about her finances or spending to anyone. She doesn’t seek validation. She buys a plane ticket on a whim. She wears clothes she choses to elevate her fashion game, not for practicality.
And then there is the version who folds the laundry, reminds the maid about the dusting, plans dinner, pausing mid chore to wonder if she’s allowed to want more.
Recently, something inside her has changed in a quiet, tender way.like a seed splitting open beneath the soil. She has started reclaiming little pieces of her life for herself.
A solo walk in the park.A book read without interruption.A cup of coffee in a cafe alone,where nobody knows her name.The painting class she signed up for without telling anyone first. A guilt free shopping splurge.
These may seem like small things, but they feel like keys to a locked room inside her.Her family doesn’t fully understand.They look puzzled when she says she needs me time. What could she possibly need time for ? Hasn't she been at home all day?
But she smiles. For she knows the truth. She’s finding herself again, slowly,like uncovering an old photograph in a dusty drawer.
She knows she won’t have the corporate career she dreamt about. Maybe she won’t live in a different city or travel the world in one grand sweep.
But she can still live on her own terms, not in bits and pieces. She can still carve out her own identity from the life she already has.
And sometimes,this surprises even herself. She feels a new kind of excitement.A sense that life isn’t over or settled or finished just because she’s in her late forties,that there are still versions of her waiting to be discovered.
