I am sixty-eight. Alone. I asked my children to take me in—only to receive a polite “no” in return.
A widow for many years now, my husband left quietly in his sleep, without a word, without goodbyes. Since then, I’ve moved as if through fog. The days blur together, faces slip from memory, events leave no mark. I still work—not for the money, but so the silence doesn’t drive me mad. Work is the only time left in the day when I feel even slightly useful.
I don’t complain. I’m merely stating the truth. I have no passions, no hobbies, no dreams. All that was—is gone. I no longer search, no longer try, no longer hope. Perhaps it’s just old age. But what weighs heaviest isn’t the years—it’s the loneliness, clinging to the walls of my little flat in Kent like damp, silent and unnoticed, but relentless.
So I made a decision. Perhaps my son and his family might come live with me? Three children, a growing household, cramped quarters. I’ve space to spare—a spare room, cupboards full of bedding, corners for toys. It seemed logical: the space is there, the willingness too. But nothing is ever so simple.
My son listened without interruption. Then my daughter-in-law rang. Polite, but with ice in her voice.
“Margaret, you must understand—we’ve our own way of doing things. The children are used to their own space. And under one roof… well, it’s complicated. Everyone has their habits, their rhythm.”
I understood. I was a burden. An old woman to be endured. And yet, I hadn’t asked for much—just to be near them.
My daughter… I would have gladly stayed with her. But she has her own life, her own worries. She never said outright that I wasn’t welcome—but the look in her husband’s eyes when I lingered too long after supper said enough. Still, my daughter is kind: always pours the tea, feeds me, listens. But the more I visit, the harder it is to return to my empty flat, where the ticking clock is louder than the telly.
They tell me I’m not old. That life doesn’t end at retirement. That I could take a holiday, join a book club, try my hand at gardening. “You’ve closed yourself off,” they say.
“Mum, do you really think you’d be happier with us?” my daughter asks. “You’d never relax—you’d always feel like an outsider.”
“Find something that truly interests you,” my son suggests. “The library, the pool. There’s so much to do these days…”
I stand silent, lost for words. How do I explain it’s not hobbies I need? Not exhibitions, not brisk country walks. A voice in the morning. The clatter of little feet in the hall. Tea brewed for more than just myself. Someone simply there.
They say, “You could still find love.” But it strikes me as absurd. Where would I go, with my wrinkles, my tired eyes, a memory filled more with yesterday than tomorrow?
Yes, I am alive. Yet it feels as though I live beside everything—beside laughter, beside chatter, beside the joy that once filled my kitchen. Now only quiet. And me.
I don’t ask for pity. Only to understand: why am I unwanted by those I once stayed up nights for? Cooked for, ironed for, nursed through fevers? Why is there no corner for me in their lives now? I’m not a stranger. I’m their mother. Their grandmother. Their own flesh.
Is being needed a luxury reserved only for the young?
I don’t know how to convince my children to take me in. Perhaps I shouldn’t try. Perhaps pride should whisper, “Live as you are. Don’t impose.” But the heart knows no pride. It only aches. And dreams—in its own old, quiet way—that one day the phone might ring, and a voice would say:
“Mum, we’ve thought it over. Come stay. We miss you.”
