I’m 67. I live alone in Manchester, in a little two-bedroom flat where laughter once bubbled, the air smelled of Sunday roast, and the hallway was always cluttered with coats and school bags. Now? Silence. The kind that’s so thick you’d swear the walls have forgotten how to echo. My husband passed eight years ago. The kids have long flown the nest. And here I am. Proper alone—not in the poetic sense, but the kind that clatters around you like a dropped teapot.
I still work. Not for the money—my pension’s modest, but it covers beans on toast and the odd cuppa. No, I work because it’s the only thing standing between me and losing the plot entirely. Between the monotony, the telly mumbling to itself, and the fridge hosting a single portion of soup for days on end.
Hobbies? Haven’t got any. And if I’m honest, I can’t summon the enthusiasm to hunt for one. Too old to start fresh, I thought. My son’s got three kids, living in a Cheshire semi. I suggested, ever so gently, “What if I moved in? Could lend a hand with the grandkids.” But the daughter-in-law shut that down—politely, mind. Said sharing a roof with an old bird would be a bit much. Can’t blame her. The young need their space, their routines, their own messes to tidy.
Then there’s my daughter. Lovely girl. Married, two kids, a proper whirlwind of a life. She’s all hugs and Sunday roasts, always asking how I am. But live with her? That’s off the table. Not for lack of love—just different worlds. Visiting them is like stepping into a sitcom: chaotic, warm, alive. But the longer I linger, the heavier the quiet feels when I come home. Still, home I go. Nowhere else to turn.
I wondered: Is this just how it’s meant to be? Is growing old just… lonely? Then something in me snapped. No. This isn’t normal. It’s not about age—it’s about letting life fade like an old photo.
A therapist—yes, I finally saw one—said something that stuck: “At 67, you’re not old. You’re alive. Just a bit lost.” He reckoned the lack of hobbies (or even the will to find one) was a warning sign. Might be depression. Might be time to reach out—to a doctor, a friend, to *life*.
“Your kids aren’t obliged to share their homes,” he said. “They’ve built theirs. Now build yours. New. Different. You’ve got time. No one’s nagging. It’s freedom, not a life sentence.”
“Look around,” he told me. “Free clubs, art classes, book groups. Try something. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Chat to strangers—age doesn’t scrap that.”
It got me thinking. How many places had I meant to visit? How many books piled up for “someday”? How many others are sitting in their own quiet flats, convinced they’re the only ones?
I’m still scared. Fear’s no sin—giving up is. And I won’t. Not yet. I’ve promised myself: one tiny thing. Walk to the shops instead of bussing. Peek into the library. Sign up for that terrible watercolour course. Join the gardening club. Why not?
And the kids? They’re here. Maybe not under the same roof, but they call. They visit. They love me. That’s enough. Enough to know I’m not left behind—just moving differently.
I’m 67. I’m alive. And there’s still something good ahead. I just have to remember that when the kettle boils tomorrow. And maybe—just maybe—step out the door.
