I’m sixty-eight. Alone. I asked my kids if I could move in with them—and got a polite “no” in return.
I’m sixty-eight. A widow. It’s been years. My husband slipped away quietly in his sleep—no words, no goodbyes. Since then, it’s like I’ve been living in a fog. Days blur together, faces fade, nothing really sticks. I still work—not for the money, just to keep from losing my mind in all this silence. Work’s the only time I feel even slightly useful anymore.
I’m not complaining. Just saying how it is. I’ve got no hobbies, no passions, no dreams left. Everything that mattered is in the past. I’m not searching, not trying, not hoping anymore. Maybe that’s just what happens when you’re old. But it’s not the years that weigh on me most—it’s the loneliness, clinging to the walls of my little terrace house in Slough like damp, quiet but relentless.
So I finally worked up the courage. Thought maybe my son and his family could move in with me? Three kids, cramped in their place, while I’ve got a spare room, cupboards full of linens, space for toys. Seemed logical—there’s room, and I’d love the company. But it’s never that simple.
My son listened without interrupting. Then his wife called. Polite, but ice in her tone.
*“You understand, Margaret, we’ve got our routine. The kids are used to their own space. And living under one roof—it’s complicated. Everyone’s got their own way of doing things.”*
I got it. I’d be a burden. The old woman they’d have to tiptoe around. And all I wanted was to be near them.
My daughter? I’d have loved to stay with her. But she’s got her own family, her own life. She’d never say I wasn’t welcome, but… I see the way her husband glances at the clock when I linger too long after Sunday roast. Still, she’s kind—always pours me tea, feeds me, listens. But the more I visit, the harder it is to go back to my empty flat, where the ticking clock drowns out the telly.
They tell me I’m not old. That life doesn’t end at retirement. *“Go on a coach trip, join a book club, take up Pilates. You’ve just shut yourself away.”*
*“Mum, do you really think you’d be happier with us?”* my daughter asks. *“You’d never relax—you’d always feel like you’re in the way.”*
*“Find something you actually enjoy,”* my son says. *“Maybe the library, or swimming. There’s so much out there.”*
And I just stand there, silent. Because how do I explain? It’s not hobbies I need. Not day trips or aqua aerobics. It’s a voice in the morning. The sound of small feet padding down the hall. A cup of tea made for two. Someone just… there.
They say, *“You could still meet someone.”* But honestly, it feels ridiculous. Me, with these wrinkles, tired eyes, a head full of memories and hardly any future left?
Yes, I’m alive. But it’s like life’s happening without me. Past the birthdays, past the conversations, past the laughter that used to fill the kitchen. Now it’s just quiet. And me.
I don’t want pity. I just want to understand: why am I the one left out after all those sleepless nights, the packed lunches, the fevers I stayed up nursing? Why isn’t there a place for me anymore? I’m not a stranger. I’m their mum. Granny. Family.
Is being needed a luxury only the young get to keep?
I don’t know how to convince them to let me in. Maybe I shouldn’t try. Maybe pride should tell me, *“Get on with it. Don’t force yourself where you’re not wanted.”* But the heart doesn’t know pride. It just aches. And dreams—in its own silly, old-fashioned way—of the day the phone might ring and I’d hear:
*“Mum, we’ve been thinking. Come stay. We miss you.”*
