Everything comes at a price! Now I’m as lonely as a stray…
This is written by a solitary man past seventy. I wish to share my tale, hoping it might serve as a warning to others.
I reside in a bustling industrial town, yet surrounded by strangers. The weathered walls of my terraced house long ago lost their warmth, and the streets I once strode with purpose now feel desolate and unwelcoming. No one awaits my return, no one inquires after me. Such is the cost of my past…
I gaze into the mirror and scarcely recognize myself. Sunken cheeks, hair turned silver decades ago, hunched shoulders, and eyes drained of their spark. Where is the man who once lived recklessly, chasing women, lavish parties, and the high life? Where’s that cocksure bon vivant who believed the world lay at his feet? In his place stands a weary, forgotten pensioner…
**Sins of Yesterday**
In my prime, I was a charmer, fortune’s favorite. Beautiful women entranced me—easily won, just as easily discarded. “You only live once,” I’d declare, convinced of my philosophy. Back then, it felt justified.
I had a wife, Catherine—a kind, patient soul. She endured fifteen years of marriage, though I gave her no peace. Nights spent carousing, stumbling home drunk, occasionally bringing cheap floozies through our door. Catherine stayed silent, enduring, clinging to hope I’d change.
But I saw no reason to stop. I assumed she’d never leave. What choice did she have? I was charming, amusing, flush with cash. Then one day, Catherine issued an ultimatum: reform or lose her. I scoffed: “And where exactly would you go, darling?”
She knew precisely where. One morning, she packed her things, took our children, and vanished to the opposite end of the country. No drama, no theatrics. Simply gone—for good.
At first, I shrugged it off. Continued my ways, barely sparing a thought for my family. Child support payments were sporadic; they never chased me. Once, I mailed Christmas gifts as a grand gesture. Days later, the parcel returned unopened…
I brushed it aside. “They’ll come crawling back,” I told myself. Yet years passed without a word.
**Lonely Twilight: A Bitter Reckoning**
I never pondered old age. Youth felt eternal. Steady work bored me; revelry ruled. I flitted between jobs, mocking those who saved diligently or built futures.
Now my “carefree” life yields a pittance of a pension, barely covering prescriptions. Hot meals are distant memories. Some nights, I sleep hungry—with none to hear my complaints.
Recently, I bumped into an old acquaintance on High Street. Though aged, he looked content—well-kept, assured. A family man with a home and grandchildren. He clapped my shoulder and said:
“Nicholas… you were king of the castle. What’s become of you?”
I had no reply. A lump choked my throat. All that remains are ghosts of regret. I seek no pity. My fate is self-made.
While others nurtured families, I drank with fairweather mates in pubs.
While others saved, I squandered earnings on mistresses.
While others planned tomorrows, I chased tonight’s thrills.
Now, when I crave my children’s voices, I dare not dial. Grandchildren may exist—yet I’ll die never knowing their faces.
**Belated Counsel for Those Who Still Can**
Don’t mirror my folly. Youth isn’t eternal. Never take family for granted. Cherish those beside you.
For one day, you might stand in an empty flat where even echoes ignore your “Hello”…
