**Diary Entry**
I’m sixty-eight. Alone. I asked my children to take me in—and received a polite “no” in return.
I’ve been a widow for years now. My husband left quietly, in his sleep, without a word or farewell. Since then, life has blurred together. Days blend indistinctly, faces evade memory, and events slip away. I still work—not for money, but to keep from losing my mind in the silence. Work is the only time I feel even slightly needed.
I’m not complaining. It’s just fact. I have no hobbies, no passions, no dreams left. Everything meaningful belongs to the past. I no longer search, try, or hope. Perhaps it’s just age. But what weighs on me most isn’t the years—it’s the loneliness clinging to the walls of my two-bedroom flat in Surrey like damp, silent and relentless.
So, I made a decision. Maybe my son and his family could move in with me? Three grandchildren, a growing household, cramped living space. Meanwhile, I have a spare room, cupboards of linens, space for toys. It seemed logical: the room exists, the willingness, too. But things are never that simple.
My son listened without interruption. Then my daughter-in-law called—polite, but ice in her voice.
*”You understand, Margaret, we’ve settled into our own routine. The children need their space. And honestly, sharing a roof? It’s complicated. Different habits, different rhythms.”*
I understood. To them, I’m a burden. An old woman to be humoured, endured. And yet, I never asked for much—just to be near.
My daughter… I’d have happily stayed with her. But her family, her priorities—she never outright said I’d be unwelcome, but her husband’s glance when I linger too long in the kitchen after supper speaks volumes. Still, she’s gracious: always pours my tea, feeds me, listens. But the more I visit, the harder it is to return to my empty flat, where the clock ticks louder than the telly.
They tell me I’m not old. That life doesn’t end at retirement. *Take a holiday, join a book club, try yoga—you’ve shut yourself away.*
*”Mum, do you really think living with us would make you happier?”* my daughter asks. *”You’d never relax. You’d always feel like an outsider.”*
*”Find something you truly love,”* my son says. *”The library, swimming. There’s so much out there…”*
I stand silent. How do I explain it’s not hobbies I want? Not galleries or brisk walks. It’s a voice in the morning. The sound of little feet in the hallway. Tea brewed for two. Someone simply *there*.
They say, *”You could still meet someone.”* To me, it’s absurd. Where? With these wrinkles, these tired eyes, a mind crowded with memories instead of tomorrows?
Yes, I’m alive—but it’s as if I exist beside life itself. Past the laughter, past the holidays, past the conversations that once filled the kitchen. Now, just silence. And me.
I don’t ask for pity. Only to understand: why am I unwanted in the lives of those I once nursed, cooked for, watched over with feverish brows? Why is there no corner left for me? I’m no stranger. I’m their mother. Grandmother. Family.
Is being needed a luxury reserved for the young?
I don’t know how to convince them. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe pride should whisper: *”Live as you are. Don’t impose.”* But the heart knows no pride. It only aches. And still dreams—in its own stubborn, aged way—that the phone might ring one day, and a voice would say:
*”Mum? We’ve talked. Come home. We miss you.”*
