For years, I was the mother who always said yes. I put everyone else first, even when I was exhausted and had nothing left to give. But after a painful family vacation in Brittany, my daughter finally realized what she had been doing to me. And at 62, I discovered something I should have learned decades earlier: loving your family should never mean losing yourself.

I stared at the horizon.

It was such a simple question.

Yet it was one I had not seriously asked myself in years.

For a long time, my life had revolved around other people’s needs.

My husband’s needs.

My daughter’s needs.

My grandson’s needs.

There was nothing wrong with loving them.

There was nothing wrong with helping them.

The problem was that I had begun to believe my own wishes mattered less.

“I want to travel sometimes,” I said slowly. “I want to spend time with my friends. I want to read books without feeling guilty because the house is not perfectly clean. I want to go for walks. I want to wear the clothes I buy instead of saving them for some special occasion that may never come.”

Claire smiled.

“And?”

I laughed softly.

“And I want to drink my coffee while it is still hot.”

She burst out laughing.