I am sixty years old. I live alone. And this is not the old age I ever imagined.
I am sixty. A mother to two grown children—a son and a daughter—both bright and beautiful. I have five grandchildren of varying ages, all living in the same city. Yet despite this seemingly full family, every holiday finds me alone. Not just holidays, either—loneliness has become my constant companion.
When my husband was alive, I never felt this emptiness. We were enough for each other. We celebrated the New Year, Christmas, quietly, without grand feasts, but with warmth, smiles, and a peculiar closeness. He was my anchor, the wall I could lean on at any moment. When he passed, I fell into silence. And each year, that silence grew louder.
December is always the hardest. A season meant to be filled with light, laughter, the scent of cinnamon and fir needles—for me, it turns to ice, a reminder that I am by myself. My children do call. Sometimes. But there are years when even that doesn’t happen on time. A greeting might arrive on the second or third of January. Still, I smile through the hurt, pretending not to notice the lateness. Pretending it’s fine.
Deep down, though, I know—I am no longer needed. Not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a grandmother. I am the past, remembered in stolen moments between their “important” lives. Yet once, I was everything to them. I washed, fed, nursed, sat by their beds through long nights. I lived for them. Now their lives pass me by.
I understand—they have their own families, their own worries. But why is there no room for me in those worries? Every time I invite them for Christmas or New Year’s, the answer is the same: “Mum, we can’t this year, we’ve already made plans.” And I don’t ask for much—just an evening. One evening together, around a table where I could serve my famous mince pies, simmer mulled wine, set the table like I used to in better days.
I always dreamed that as I aged, my home would hum with voices, children’s laughter, the rustle of wrapping paper, the smell of freshly baked shortbread, the clink of china. I imagined bustling in the kitchen, grumbling about the noise while secretly feeling truly alive. Needed.
But it never happened. With each year, it grows clearer—those dreams will stay dreams. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ceased to exist for them as a person. I’m just a function now, activated when they need a babysitter or an errand done. Not a woman, not a mother.
I don’t speak of this to my children. Not out of fear—but because I know they won’t understand. They’ll say I’m exaggerating. That “all mums get a bit sad sometimes.” That “it’s just age.” But it’s not age that weighs on me. It’s the hollowness in my chest when I glance at the front door and know—no one’s coming.
Perhaps one day, they’ll realise. When they’re old themselves. When they look back and see that the ones who once stood beside them have long since vanished. I don’t wish it on them, no. But I fear by then, that understanding will come too late for me.
And so, as another New Year approaches, I decorate the flat alone. String lights no one will see. Put up a tree with no gifts beneath it. Make a roast I’ll eat for days in silence. And swallow my tears.
Maybe another woman reading this will know the feeling. Maybe she, too, lights a candle at the empty dining table, hoping next year will be different. That they’ll call. That they’ll visit. That they’ll remember.
And if you are a son or daughter—just ring your mum. Not tomorrow. Today. Because tomorrow, she might stop waiting.
