I am sixty now. I live alone. And this is not the old age I ever imagined for myself.
I am sixty. A mother to two grown children—a son and a daughter, both bright and beautiful. I have five grandchildren of various ages, all living in the same city. Yet despite having such a large family, I spend every holiday alone. And not just holidays—loneliness has become my constant companion.
When my husband was alive, I never felt this emptiness. We were enough for each other. We celebrated New Year’s Eve and Christmas together, quietly, without grand feasts, but with warmth, smiles, and a rare kind of closeness. He was my rock, my steadfast wall, someone I could lean on at any moment. But when he was gone, I fell into silence. And with each passing year, that silence has only grown louder.
December is the hardest. A time meant to be filled with light, laughter, the scent of cinnamon and pine—for me, it only sharpens the icy reminder that I am by myself. My children… they call. Sometimes. But there are years when even that doesn’t happen in time. Greetings might arrive on the second or third of January. Still, I smile through the hurt, pretending not to notice the delay. Pretending everything is fine.
But deep down, I feel it—I am no longer needed. Not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a grandmother. I am a relic of the past, remembered in passing between their “important” lives. And yet, once, I was everything to them. I washed their clothes, fed them, nursed their fevers, sat by their beds through the night. I lived for them. Now, their lives move on without me.
I understand—they have their own families, their own concerns. But why is there no room for me in those concerns? Every time I ask them to come for Christmas or New Year’s, the answer is the same: “Mum, it won’t work this year, we’ve already made plans.” And yet I ask for so little—just an evening. One evening together, around the table, where I could bake their favourite pies, simmer spiced cider, set out the good china, like in the old days.
I always dreamed that, in my later years, my home would echo with voices, children’s laughter, the rustle of wrapping paper, the smell of mince pies, the clatter of dishes. I imagined bustling over the stove, complaining about the noise, yet feeling, deep inside, more alive than ever. Needed.
But that never came to pass. And with each year, it grows clearer—those dreams will remain dreams. Sometimes I think I’ve ceased to exist to them as a person. I am a function, summoned only when a babysitter is wanted or a favour is needed, not as a woman, not as a mother, not as someone with a heart of her own.
I don’t tell them this. Not because I fear it—but because I know they wouldn’t understand. They’d say I’m exaggerating. That “all mothers get a bit lonely sometimes.” That “it’s just your age.” But it’s not age that weighs on me. It’s the emptiness in my own reflection when I glance at the front door, knowing it won’t open.
Perhaps, one day, they’ll understand. When they’re old themselves. When they look back and realise those who once stood beside them have long since gone. I don’t wish it upon them—never that. But I fear, by then, it will be too late for me.
And so now, as another year draws near, I decorate the house alone. I drape the garlands no one will see. I trim the tree beneath which no presents will lie. I make a Christmas pudding I’ll eat for three days straight. And I swallow my tears in silence.
Maybe another woman reading this will know the feeling. Maybe she, too, lights a solitary candle on the holiday table, hoping next year will be different. That the phone will ring. That they’ll visit. That they’ll remember.
And if you are a son or a daughter… just call your mother. Not tomorrow. Today. For tomorrow, she may no longer be waiting.
