I am 67, and I live alone… I asked my children to take me in, but they refused. And now, I do not know how to carry on.
I am 67. I live by myself in Manchester, in an old two-bedroom flat where, once upon a time, children laughed, the air smelled of freshly baked scones, music filled the evenings, and coats and satchels lay strewn about the hall. Now, there is only silence. A heavy, suffocating silence—so deep it feels as though even the walls have forgotten how to breathe. My husband passed eight years ago. The children are grown and gone. And I am alone. Truly alone. Not in a vague or wistful sense, but in a way that aches, sharp and hollow, like an empty room.
I still work. Not because I need the money—my pension, though modest, is enough to get by. I work because it is the only thing that keeps me from losing myself entirely. From the monotony. From the quiet. From the television murmuring to itself. From the fridge holding a single bowl of soup, untouched for days.
I have no hobbies. And, if I am honest, no desire to find any. I thought I was too old to start anew. That’s how it seemed before. I asked my son—he has three children, living out in a cottage in the countryside. I offered, “Let me move in. I’ll help. I’ll look after the grandchildren.” But my daughter-in-law refused. She said plainly: she couldn’t bear living under the same roof with an elderly woman. I don’t blame her. The young are different. They need space, their own rhythms, their own rules.
I would have liked to live with my daughter. She has a family, a job, two little ones. She loves me—always happy to see me, inviting me for Sunday roasts, listening, smiling. But she doesn’t want me to stay. Not because she doesn’t care. Her world is built differently. When I visit, my heart lifts—the noise, the bustle, the life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to the empty flat. Still, I go back. Because there is nowhere else for me to go.
I used to wonder—is this how it’s meant to be? Is old age just loneliness? But something inside me snapped. I realised: this isn’t right. It isn’t normal. It isn’t about age—it’s about losing the will to live.
A counsellor I spoke to recently told me something important: “At 67, you are not old. You are alive. You’ve just forgotten how to move forward.” He explained that having no hobbies—not even the desire to find any—was a warning sign. Perhaps the start of depression. And I needed help—from a doctor, a therapist, from life itself.
He said, “Your children aren’t obliged to share their house with you. They’ve built their own lives. That’s natural. But so can you. Something new. At this age, you finally have time. Energy. No one demands anything from you. This is freedom—not a sentence.”
“Look for things around you,” he urged. “Free clubs, exhibitions, workshops, lectures. Find something that sparks your interest. Visit places you’ve never been. Make friends—it’s possible at any age.”
I thought about it. He was right. How many places had I longed to see? How many books had I set aside for “later”? How many people, just like me, sat alone in their homes, thinking no one cared?
I am still afraid. Fear isn’t a sin. The sin would be giving up. And I won’t. Not now. I’ve promised myself—I’ll try. Just a little. Walk a few bus stops instead of riding. Stop by the library. Sign up for a sketching class. Maybe even a gardening club. Who knows?
And my children? They are still here. Maybe not under the same roof. But they call. They hug me. They love me. And that, too, is happiness. Enough to remind me I am not abandoned.
Life has changed. And so must I.
I am 67. I am alive. And there is still something good ahead. I just have to remember that when morning comes. And not be afraid to begin again—even if that beginning is as simple as a cup of tea and a step out the door.
