The moment I retired, the problems beganage had a way of unmasking the loneliness that had gathered over the years.
I am sixty. And for the first time in my life, I feel as though I no longer existnot to my children, not to my grandchildren, not to my ex-husband, and certainly not to the world.
Physically, I am here. I walk down the street, stop at the chemist, buy a loaf of bread, sweep the patio beneath my window. But inside, theres a hollowness that grows wider each morning, now that I no longer rush to work. Now that no one calls to ask, *Mum, how are you?*
I live alone. I have for years. My children are grown, each with their own families, scattered across the countrymy son in Manchester, my daughter in Brighton. My grandchildren are growing up, and I hardly know them. I dont see them off to school, I dont knit scarves for them, I dont read them bedtime stories. Ive never been invited to visit. Not once.
One day, I asked my daughter:
*Why dont you want me to come? I could help with the children*
Her voice was calm but cold when she answered:
*Mum, you know my husband cant stand you. Youre always interfering, and you have your ways*
It struck like a blow to the chest. Humiliated, furious, woundedI wasnt trying to impose. I just wanted to be near. But the message was clear: *Youre not welcome.* Not by my children, not by my grandchildren. Its as though Ive been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in a nearby village, never finds the time to see me. Once a year, I get a stiff Christmas textas if its a favour.
When I retired, I thought, *Finally, time for myself.* Id take up knitting, go for morning walks, join that painting class Id always dreamed of. But instead of joy came dread.
First came strange symptomsracing heart, dizzy spells, a deep fear of dying. I visited doctors. They ran tests, ECGs, scans all normal. Until one finally said:
*Madam, its emotional in nature. You need someone to talk to, to socialise. Youre very alone.*
That was worse than any diagnosis. Because theres no pill to cure loneliness.
Sometimes, I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashiers voice. Other times, I sit on a park bench with a book, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop. But people are always in a hurry. Everyone has somewhere to be. And me? I simply exist. I breathe. I remember.
What did I do wrong? Why has my family pulled away? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked double shifts, cooked, ironed their uniforms, nursed them when they were ill. I didnt drink. I didnt go out. I gave everything I had.
And now? Im just an extra.
Was I too strict? Too controlling? I only wanted the best for them. Wanted them to be good, responsible people. I kept them away from bad influences. And in the end Im the one left behind.
I dont want pity. I just want to understandwas I truly such a terrible mother? Or is this simply the way of modern lifemortgages, after-school clubs, endless rushingwhere theres no room left for an old woman?
Some say:
*Find a partner. Join a dating site.*
But I cant. I dont trust easily. After so many years alone, I havent the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my life. And my health isnt what it once was.
I cant even work. At least then there was chatter, laughter. Now, theres only silence. A silence so heavy that sometimes I turn on the telly just to hear voices.
Sometimes I wonder: *If I disappeared, would anyone notice?* Not my children, not my ex-husband, not the neighbour upstairs. The thought fills me with dread.
But then I take a deep breath. I stand, make tea in the kitchen, and tell myself: *Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will remember. Maybe a phone call. A letter. Maybe I still matter.*
As long as theres hope, Ill stay alive.
