As soon as I retired, the problems began. I’m sixty now, 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. Oh, I’m still *here*, technically. I pop to the chemist, buy bread, sweep the little patch of pavement outside my window. But inside? Just this growing emptiness, more obvious with every morning I don’t have to rush off to work. No one calls just to ask, *Mum, how are you?*
I’ve lived alone for years. My kids are grown, busy with their own families, scattered across the country—my son in Manchester, my daughter in Brighton. The grandkids are growing up strangers. I don’t see them off to school, don’t knit them jumpers, don’t get to read them bedtime stories. Not once have I been invited to visit. Not once.
So I asked my daughter, point-blank: *Why don’t you want me to come? I could help with the kids…*
She hesitated, then said—politely, but cold—*Mum, you know how it is. My husband doesn’t like you. You’re always interfering, and your way of talking just… rubs him wrong.*
I shut up, stung. *Interfering?* All I wanted was to be near them. But apparently, that’s too much—for the grandkids, for the kids, even for my ex, who lives in the next village over and can’t spare more than a once-a-year *Happy Christmas* text, as if it’s some grand favour.
When I retired, I thought, *Brilliant! Time for me at last.* I’d take up knitting, go for morning strolls, maybe even sign up for that watercolour class I’d always fancied. Instead, happiness gave way to dread.
First came the weird symptoms—heart flutters, dizzy spells, sudden panic. I dragged myself to doctors, had scans, tests, MRIs. Nothing. One finally shrugged: *It’s all in your head. You need someone to talk to. You’re just lonely.*
Worse than any diagnosis. No pill cures that.
Some days, I go to Tesco just to hear the cashier say *Pound for the trolley?* Some days, I sit on the bench outside pretending to read, hoping someone might stop. But everyone’s in a hurry. And me? I’m just… there. Sitting, breathing, remembering.
What did I do wrong? Why did my family turn away? I raised them alone—their father left early. Two jobs, two kids, stews simmering, school uniforms pressed, nights spent nursing fevers. No drinking, no gallivanting. Everything for them. And now? Surplus to requirements.
Maybe I *was* too strict. Maybe I hovered too much. But I only wanted the best—wanted them to turn out decent, responsible. Kept them out of trouble. And for what? To end up alone.
I don’t want pity. Just answers. Am I really that terrible a mum? Or is this just how it is now—mortgages, school runs, footie practice, no room left for me?
People say, *Find a man! Try online dating!* But I can’t. Too many years on my own. No energy left to start over, to trust, to let some stranger into my house. Besides, my knees won’t thank me for it.
Work kept me sane—office banter, a laugh by the kettle. Now? Silence. So thick I leave the telly on just to hear another voice.
Sometimes I wonder: If I vanished, would anyone notice? Not the kids, not the ex, not even Mrs. Whittaker from flat 3. It terrifies me.
But then I get up, put the kettle on, and think: *Maybe tomorrow. Maybe someone will remember. Maybe I still matter to someone.*
As long as that hope’s alive, so am I.
