As soon as I retired, the problems began—old age laid bare the loneliness that had been simmering for years.
I’m sixty. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I might as well not exist—not to my kids, my grandkids, my ex-husband, or even the world at large. I’m here, technically. I exist. I go to the chemist’s, buy bread, sweep the little yard under my window. But inside? A hollowness that grows more obvious with every morning when there’s no rush to work, when no one calls just to ask, “Mum, how are you?”
I live alone. Have done for years. My kids are grown, with families of their own, scattered across the country—my son in Manchester, my daughter in Brighton. The grandkids are growing up, and I barely know them. I don’t see them off to school, don’t knit them scarves, don’t tell them bedtime stories. Not once have I been invited to visit. Not once.
Once, I asked my daughter:
“Why don’t you want me to come? I could help with the kids…”
She answered, calmly but coldly:
“Mum, you know how it is… My husband doesn’t like you. You’re always interfering, and your way of talking…”
I went quiet. Shame, hurt, resentment—all flooded in. I wasn’t forcing my way in; I just wanted to be near them. And the answer? “Doesn’t like you.” Not the grandkids, not my own children. It’s like I’ve been erased. Even my ex, who lives in the next village over, can’t spare the time. Once a year, a cursory holiday text—as if he’s doing me a favour.
When I retired, I thought, *Here it is—finally, time for me.* I’d take up knitting, go for morning walks, sign up for painting classes like I’d always dreamed. Instead, what arrived wasn’t happiness—but anxiety.
First came strange, nagging symptoms—my heart, dizziness, sudden panics about dying. I saw doctors, had tests, EKGs, MRIs—all clear. One doctor said:
“It’s all in your head. You need someone to talk to. You’re just lonely.”
And that was worse than any diagnosis. Because there’s no pill that cures loneliness.
Sometimes, I go to the shop just to hear the cashier speak. Sometimes, I sit on the bench outside, pretending to read, hoping someone stops by. But people are busy. Everyone’s rushing. And I’m just… there. Sitting, breathing, remembering…
What did I do wrong? Why have my own turned away from me? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked double shifts, made soups, ironed school uniforms, stayed up nights when they were ill. Never drank, never strayed. Did everything for them. And now? I’m not needed.
Maybe I was too strict. Maybe I overdid the control. But I only wanted the best—for them to grow up decent, responsible. Kept them from bad crowds, from ruining their lives. And in the end? I’m the one left behind.
I’m not asking for pity. Just answers: was I really that bad a mother? Or is this just how it is now—mortgages, schools, clubs, and no room left for Mum?
Some say, “Find a man. Sign up online.” But I can’t. I don’t trust anymore. Decades alone. No strength left to open up, fall in love, let a stranger into my home. Besides, the old bones aren’t what they were.
Working’s not an option either. At least at the office, there were people—a joke here, a chat there. Now? Silence. So deafening I leave the telly on just to hear another voice.
Sometimes, I wonder: if I just vanished, would anyone notice? Not the kids, not the ex, not even the neighbour on the third floor. And that’s what scares me. To tears.
But then I get up, make a cuppa. Think: *Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will remember. Call. Text. Maybe I still matter to someone.*
As long as hope’s alive, so am I.
