My name is Rachel and I’m from London, UK. I’ve gone back and forth about sharing this. Partly because I don’t really know how to talk about it without feeling guilty, and partly because I know there are probably other mums who feel the same way and don’t talk about it either.
I’m a single mum by choice. My twins, Mia and Oliver, are fifteen now. They’re tall, funny, opinionated teenagers with very strong views about pretty much everything. They’re also wonderful, although they probably wouldn’t appreciate me saying that. When they were little, I worked. A lot.
I had chosen to become a mum on my own and I have never regretted that decision. But raising two children by yourself in London is expensive, and there wasn’t another income coming into the house. If I didn’t work, the bills still needed paying. The mortgage still needed paying. Life didn’t stop just because I was tired or because I wanted to be at home with my children. So I worked. And I missed things. That is the part I still find difficult to say.
We had a nanny, Patricia, who was absolutely lovely. She looked after the children during the day while I was working, and she adored them and they adored her. She was kind and patient and, honestly, she was brilliant with them. Patricia used to send me little videos during the day. Sometimes they were only ten seconds long. Mia sitting at the kitchen table trying to feed herself and getting more food on her face than in her mouth. Oliver running around the garden in his socks. The two of them dancing to some ridiculous song in the sitting room.
I would be sitting in a meeting, my phone would buzz, and I’d see a message from Patricia saying, “Look what they’re doing.” And there they would be. My babies. Laughing. I’d smile at my phone like an idiot, show the video to whoever was sitting next to me, and then put it away because I had a meeting to get through. Sometimes I would watch the videos again later, once the children were in bed. I still have all of them.
There’s one of Mia taking her first proper steps. Patricia had filmed it because she knew I would want to see it. You can hear her laughing behind the camera and saying, “Go on, sweetheart.” Mia takes about three steps before falling straight into the sofa. I wasn’t there. But I have the video. And somehow that makes it both better and worse.
Patricia was also there during a phase when Oliver was frightened of the dark. It was usually at naptime, when she would settle him down for his afternoon sleep. One afternoon, she sent me a video of him sitting in bed, wrapped up in his duvet, very seriously insisting there was “definitely something” under his bed. I remember watching it in my office and laughing. Then I felt awful because I wasn’t the person sitting beside him. Patricia was. She was the one reassuring him and staying with him until he settled down. I was working.
I remember hearing about some of those things afterwards and feeling happy for them, but also absolutely heartbroken that I hadn’t been there myself. I was always very open with Patricia about that. I would tell her when I was struggling with it, but I never wanted her to feel as though I blamed her or that I wasn’t grateful for everything she was doing for my children. Quite the opposite. I thanked her constantly, probably more than she needed me to, because I knew how much she was giving them while I was at work. I had an enormous amount of respect for her, and I think she knew that.
There were times I would come home and she could probably tell from my face that I was having one of those days. We would talk about it. I could say, “I hate missing these things,” and she would listen without trying to make me feel better or tell me I shouldn’t feel that way. She understood. And I think that honesty made us closer rather than creating any awkwardness between us.
Patricia became much more than our nanny. She became someone who was part of our family’s life during those years, and we’ve never completely lost touch. The children still see her every now and then, and whenever we do, it feels completely natural. They remember her, of course, and she remembers them at every age. Sometimes we sit and laugh about things they did when they were little, and I realise just how much she was part of those years that I sometimes find difficult to think about.
I still feel the sadness of not being there myself, all these years later. But I also feel incredibly lucky that when I couldn’t be there, they were with someone who cared about them so much. I can hold both of those feelings at the same time.
I think mums carry an enormous amount of guilt anyway, but when you’re doing it on your own, there isn’t really anyone else to turn to at the end of the day and say, “Did we do the right thing?” There’s no partner sitting beside you saying, “They’re fine. We’re doing our best.” It’s just you. And sometimes, later that night when the children are finally asleep, you lie there thinking about everything you didn’t do that day.
The thing I missed most wasn’t even the big stuff. I usually managed to be there for birthdays, school plays, important appointments and all the things I knew mattered. It was the ordinary things. One afternoon Mia decided she wanted to bake. Apparently the kitchen ended up covered in flour and she was laughing so hard she could barely speak. Patricia sent me a video. Mia had flour all over her jumper and there was some sort of disaster happening with the mixing bowl. She looked absolutely delighted with herself.
I watched it at my desk. I remember smiling and thinking, “Oh, she’s having such a lovely time.” Then someone called me into another meeting. That was how it was. Little pieces of their childhood arriving on my phone while I was sitting in offices, in taxis, in airport lounges, wherever work happened to take me. Sometimes Patricia would send me a photo and I’d save it straight away. Sometimes she’d send a video and I’d watch it three or four times. I was grateful for every single one. But they also reminded me that I was missing it. That’s the part I’ve struggled with over the years.
But I also have to be honest about something else. My children saw me work hard. They saw me worry about money and then figure things out. They saw me make mistakes. They saw me have difficult days and get up the next morning anyway. They watched me build a life for the three of us, even when I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to manage it. And maybe that taught them something too.
Mia told me recently that she wants to have her own company one day. Oliver says he wants to be someone who doesn’t give up easily. Maybe that’s because of me. Maybe it isn’t. They’re their own people, after all. But I like to think some of what they saw growing up stayed with them.
And now they’re fifteen, and strangely, I feel like we’ve found each other again in a different way. We talk in the car about everything and nothing. Sometimes they tell me things I definitely didn’t ask to know. We have lazy Sunday mornings. We laugh. We argue. We make up. They still let me hug them sometimes, although Oliver would probably deny this if asked. We have our own little rhythm now.
And every now and then, one of those old videos comes up on my phone. Mia with flour on her face. Oliver running around the garden. The two of them sitting on the floor laughing at something I can’t even remember anymore. They’re fifteen now and I look at those videos and realise just how quickly it all went.
I wish I could go back and change some things. I wish I had been there for more of those ordinary afternoons. I wish I hadn’t felt like I had to choose between being a good mum and being able to provide for my children. But I can’t go back. I can only look at the life we have now.
I missed things. That’s true. I also gave my children a life I’m proud of. That’s true too. I think both things can exist at the same time.
So if you’re a working mum and you’re lying in bed tonight thinking about what you missed today, I just want to say that I understand. You’re not a bad mum because you had to work. And if you’re sad about the things you missed, that’s okay too. You don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt just because you were doing what you had to do.
Sometimes we can be grateful for the life we built and still grieve the bits we didn’t get to see. I think I’m finally learning that those two things can live together.
Love, always, Rachel
P.S. Mia and Oliver, if you ever read this, yes, I know you’re probably going to make fun of me for writing it. And yes, I still expect those hugs.
@Rachel, thank you for allowing us into your story. Being a woman does not mean getting every choice right; it means finding the courage to keep loving, growing, and forgiving yourself along the way.
