The moment I retired, the problems beganhow old age reveals the loneliness that had been building over the years.
Im 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 wider world.
Physically, Im here. I walk down the street, pop into the chemists, buy a loaf of bread, sweep the patio beneath my window. But inside, theres an emptiness that grows larger every 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 a long time. My children are grown, each with their own families, living in other citiesmy 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 tell 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”
She replied, her voice calm but cold:
“Mum, you know my husband cant stand you. You always interfere, and then theres your manner”
It was a blow to the heart. It left me humiliated, angry, wounded. I wasnt trying to imposeI just wanted to be close. But the message was clear: “Youre not welcome.” Not by my children, not by my grandchildren. Its as if 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 terse Christmas text, as if its a favour.
When I retired, I thought: finally, time for myself. Ill take up knitting, go for morning walks, join that painting class Ive always dreamed of. But instead of joy, anxiety settled in.
First came strange symptomsheart palpitations, dizziness, a deep fear of dying. I saw several doctors. They ran tests, ECGs, MRIs all normal. Until one doctor told me:
“Madam, its emotional. You need to talk to someone, to socialise. Youre very lonely.”
And 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 approach. 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 drifted 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, didnt go out. I gave everything I had.
And now Im just surplus.
Was I too strict? Too controlling? I only wanted the best for them. I wanted them to grow into kind, responsible people. I kept them away from bad influences. And in the end Im the one left alone.
Im not asking for pity. I just want to understandwas I really such a bad mother? Or is this just the rhythm of modern lifemortgages, after-school clubs, endless rushingwhere theres no room left for an ageing woman?
Some tell me:
“Find a partner. Join a dating site.”
But I cant. I dont trust easily. After so many years alone, I dont have the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my life. And my health isnt what it used to be.
I cant work either. At least then, there was a groupconversations, 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 on the third floor. That thought fills me with dread.
But then I take a deep breath. I get up, make a cup of 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.
