**Diary Entry – 22nd December**
I’m sixty years old. Living alone. Somehow, I never imagined old age would feel quite like this.
I have two grown-up children—a son and a daughter—both clever and kind. Five grandchildren too, all different ages, all in the same city. Yet despite this big family, every Christmas, every birthday, every holiday… I’m on my own. And not just special occasions—loneliness has settled in like a permanent guest.
When my husband was alive, the emptiness wasn’t so loud. We had each other. No fuss, no grand feasts—just quiet New Year’s Eves and Christmases, wrapped in warmth and shared smiles. He was my anchor, the steady wall I could lean on. But after he passed, silence swallowed me whole. And with each passing year, it grows heavier.
December is the hardest. A time meant for twinkling lights, laughter, the scent of cinnamon and pine—yet for me, it’s just a cold reminder that I’m alone. The children do ring… sometimes. Some years, the call comes late—Boxing Day, even the 2nd of January. I smile through it, pretending not to notice the delay. Pretending it doesn’t sting.
Deep down, I know the truth: they don’t need me anymore. Not as a woman, not as a mother, not even as a grandmother. I’m a relic, remembered in fleeting moments between their “important” lives. Once, I was everything to them. I washed their clothes, cooked their meals, sat by their beds when they were ill. Their lives were mine. Now, mine is an afterthought.
I understand—they have their own families, their own busy worlds. But why is there no room for me in those worlds? Every time I ask if they’ll come for Christmas or New Year’s, it’s the same: “Mum, not this year, we’ve already made plans.” I’m not asking for much—just one evening. One dinner, with my mince pies and mulled wine, the table set like it used to be.
I always dreamed my home would be full of chatter and laughter in old age. Wrapping paper rustling, the smell of roast dinner, the clatter of plates—me grumbling about the mess but secretly feeling alive. Needed.
But it never happened. And each year, the truth sharpens: that dream won’t come true. Sometimes, I wonder if they even see me as a person anymore. Just a function—someone to babysit or help in a pinch, not a woman with her own heartaches.
I don’t say this to them. Not out of fear, but because they wouldn’t understand. “All mums get sad sometimes,” they’d say. “It’s just your age.” But it isn’t age that weighs on me. It’s the emptiness when I stare at the front door, knowing it won’t open.
Perhaps one day they’ll see. When they’re old themselves, looking back to find the people they once took for granted long gone. I don’t wish that on them—but I fear by then, it’ll be too late for me.
So here I am again, decorating the house alone. Hanging fairy lights no one will see. Putting up a tree with no gifts beneath it. Making a Christmas pudding I’ll eat for days. Swallowing tears no one notices.
Maybe another woman reading this will understand. Maybe she, too, lights a candle at an empty table, hoping next year will be different. That the phone will ring. That they’ll visit. That they’ll remember.
And if you’re a son or a daughter… just call your mum. Not tomorrow. Today. Because one day, she might stop waiting.
