At sixty, I’m no longer wanted? That’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I always knew there’d come a time when society would write me off—when I’d stop being interesting, desired, or needed. When the kids are grown, the grandkids visit less, and friends only call on birthdays. For many, that hurts. They cling to youth, desperate to prove they’re still useful, still relevant. But not me. I’m not fighting it. Because I’m not losing anything. I’m winning.
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I’m sixty. I live in a cosy little flat in Bath, which I decorated myself after retiring. And you know what? I’m not suffering. I’m thriving. No one rings me ten times a day with complaints. No one demands I drop everything to babysit, lend money, or listen to their troubles. This isn’t loneliness. It’s freedom.
For years, I was the “reliable one.” I listened to everyone’s woes, jumped into their dramas, lent cash I could hardly spare. People came to me not because they wanted to see *me*, but because they knew I’d say yes. I was the backup plan, the safe harbour, the shoulder to cry on. But when *I* needed help? Silence. No “hang in there,” no “I’m here for you.” Just emptiness.
Then one day, I’d had enough. I no longer wanted to be needed by everyone. I wanted to be needed by *me*.
Now, my days are my own. I wake up and rush for no one. I go to yoga. I knit. I read. I bake pies just because I fancy it. I plant flowers on my balcony without justifying why I spent money on soil instead of “essentials.” I live exactly as I please.
I have a grandson. He’s a lovely boy. We see each other on weekends. I adore him. But I haven’t become a free babysitter. I refuse to be a slave to the “grandma duty” label. I’m a woman writing a new chapter.
No, I don’t have a crowd around me. But those who do come? They’re here because they *want* to be—not for favours or handouts, but simply because being near me feels good.
I’m not afraid of being alone. I’m not lonely. I’m surrounded by peace, quiet, and… myself. Finally, I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.
