When I turned thirty, people often said I had the world at my feet.
I had a decent job as an office administrator, my own rented flat in Manchester, and whenever the urge hit me, Id be off somewhere abroad for a long weekend. My friends and I spent our weekends dining out, catching the latest film, or disappearing onto the dance floor together.
Back then, I had a boyfriend Id been with for nearly five years. But every time hed bring up the idea of having a baby one day, a chill would run down my spine.
Id tell him honestlyI couldnt picture myself with nappies and sleepless nights. Hed quickly change the subject.
My mind was focused on savings, career milestones, new qualifications, and travel. Motherhood just never seemed a part of my path.
At 37, I met someone else, someone I thought could be the one. But he already had a child from a previous relationshipsomething I told myself was too much responsibility.
One day, he suggested we move in together, admitting hed like another child eventually.
That scared me.
I pulled away, stopped replying to his messages until he got the hint.
I still remember what my sister, Catherine, said to me:
Youll regret letting a good man go just because you dont want to be a mum.
I laughed then, convinced she was being melodramatic.
By 45, I was thriving in my career.
I earned a promotion, my salary was comfortable, travelled to places Id always wanted, bought my first car, even painted my whole house myself. I was proud of all Id achieved.
But while celebrating my successes, Id see my friends with their childrenat nursery, at school, football matches, dance recitals.
Privately, Id think,
What chaos Id never cope with that.
I honestly believed my life was more peaceful for it.
Then, at 52, Catherine became seriously ill and needed surgery.
Her children were by her side constantlytaking care of her, sorting out the paperwork, sorting meals, visiting her in hospital.
I felt utterly helpless.
I realised I had no one to call if I ever ended up in such a position.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room, for the first time I wondered,
What if, one day, thats me?
Who would come for me?
That was when the first pang of regret crept in. Small and silent, but it had begun.
When I turned 60, I lost my mother.
Suddenly everything was down to me:
The medical paperwork, arranging the funeral, sorting the bills, clearing out her flat.
My nieces and nephews helped a bit, but they all had their own kids, homes, and jobs.
That night I slept alone, surrounded by plastic bags full of Mums clothes, and for the first time I truly understood what Id always refused to see:
There was no one who needed me.
No one who relied on me.
No one to fill the silence.
And for the first time, I thought to myself,
Maybe Id have made a good mum.
Sundays grew hard.
My sisters gathered with their children, grandchildren, sons- and daughters-in-law.
Their homes were always filled with laughter, the sounds of life.
Id sit quietly in the cornerpresent but separate.
Not because they excluded me, but because I didnt have a role in that circle.
I was Aunt Jane, the sister, but never Mum.
Christmas made it even more obvious.
Everyone else hosted family dinners;
I was always a guestnever the host, never the centre of anyones world.
Now, at 67, I get up, eat, shop, pay the billsall on my own. It isnt a tragedy.
Its simply the truth.
When Im unwell, I call a taxi, make my way to A&E, sit alone with my handbag on my lapnot one soul asks after me.
When Im low, nobody sees.
When some small joy happenslike the day I finished paying off my housetheres no one to share it with.
Sometimes, I stand at the window and watch as my neighbours are visited by their children and grandchildren.
I have no callers like that.
No one to pass my things to.
No one to hear my story.
I dont regret not giving in to the pressure around me.
I regret realising too late that life isnt endless.
Yes, you can live exactly how you wish
But when the years pile up, all you really want is someone you can lean on.
