I am 67, and I live alone… I asked my children to take me in, but they refused. Now I don’t know how to go on.
I am 67. I live by myself in Manchester, in a small, worn-out flat where children once laughed, where the air was thick with the scent of freshly baked pies, where music filled the evenings, and coats and satchels lay strewn about the hallway. Now there is only silence—so heavy it feels as though even the walls have forgotten how to breathe. My husband passed eight years ago. The children grew up long ago. And here I am, truly alone. Not metaphorically, but in the stark, echoing way that leaves no room for pretending.
I still work—not because I need the money. My pension is modest but enough to get by. No, I work because it’s the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind entirely. From the monotony. From the quiet. From the television murmuring to itself. From the fridge holding a single bowl of soup for days on end.
I have no hobbies. And if I’m honest, no desire to find any. I used to think I was too old to start something new. I reached out to my son—he has three children, living in a cottage outside the city. I offered, “Let me move in with you. I’ll help, look after the grandchildren.” But my daughter-in-law refused. She said plainly: living under the same roof with an older woman would be too much. I don’t blame her. The young are different. They need their own space, their own routines, their own rules.
I’d hoped to live with my daughter. She has a family, a job, two children. She loves me—always welcoming, inviting me for Sunday roasts, listening with a smile. But she doesn’t want me there permanently. Not because she doesn’t care, but because her world is already built. When I visit, my heart lifts—the noise, the movement, the life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to the emptiness of my flat. Still, I do. Because I have nowhere else to go.
For a long time, I wondered: is this how it’s meant to be? Is loneliness an inevitability of age? But then something inside me snapped. I realised: this can’t go on. It isn’t normal. It isn’t about age—it’s about losing the will to live.
A therapist I spoke to recently said something that stayed with me: “At 67, you’re not old. You’re alive. You’ve just lost your way.” He told me that having no hobbies—not even the desire to find one—was a warning sign. Perhaps the start of depression. That I needed help. From a doctor. From therapy. From life itself.
He said, “Your children aren’t obliged to share their homes with you. They’ve built their own lives—that’s natural. But you can build something new too. In fact, now’s the time. You finally have the freedom. No demands, no pressure. It’s liberation—not a sentence.”
“Look for what’s out there,” he urged. “Free clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Find something that sparks your interest. Visit places you’ve never been. Make friends—it’s possible at any age.”
I thought about it. He was right. How many places had I dreamed of seeing? How many books had I set aside for “later”? How many others might be sitting in their own silent flats, believing no one needed them?
I’m still afraid. Fear isn’t a sin—giving up is. And I won’t give up. Not now. I’ve promised myself to try something—anything, no matter how small. Walk a few extra bus stops. Visit the library. Sign up for a free sketching class. Maybe even a gardening club. Who knows?
As for my children… they’re still here. Not under my roof, but close enough. They call. They hug me. They love me. And that, too, is happiness. Enough not to feel abandoned. Life has changed. And perhaps it’s time I changed with it.
I am 67. I am alive. And there is still some good ahead—if only I remember it when morning comes. And if I dare to begin again. Even if that beginning is as simple as a cup of tea and a single step beyond the doorstep.
