Everything comes at a price! Now I’m as lonely as a stray…
This comes from a solitary man in his seventies. Let my tale serve as a warning.
I reside in a bustling provincial town like Leeds or Bristol, yet every face around me is a stranger. The weathered walls of my terraced house no longer feel like home, and streets I once strode with purpose now stretch cold and indifferent. No one awaits my return. No one asks after me. Such is the cost of my past…
The mirror shows a stranger. Sunken cheeks, silver hair, hunched shoulders, dulled eyes. Where’s the man who lived wildly—charming women, hosting raucous gatherings, chasing glamour? Where’s that cocksure rake who believed the world knelt before him? In his place: a weary pensioner, invisible to all.
**Sins of Yesterday**
I was once a charmer, fortune’s favorite. Beautiful women flocked to me, easily enchanted, just as easily discarded. “You only live once,” I’d declare, convinced of my righteousness.
Margaret, my wife, endured fifteen years of marriage—patient, kind, steadfast. She weathered my nightly absences, drunken returns, even the occasional tawdry companion I’d bring home. She stayed silent, clinging to hope I’d change.
But I saw no reason to stop. “Where would she go?” I sneered when she demanded reform. “You’re nothing without me.”
Yet she knew exactly where. One day, she packed her things, took our children, and vanished to the Scottish Highlands. No drama, no tears. Just silence.
At first, I shrugged it off. Life continued unchanged. I sent sporadic child support—they never asked. Once, I mailed Christmas gifts to surprise them. Days later, the parcel returned unopened…
“They’ll come crawling back,” I muttered. Years passed. The phone never rang.
**Loneliness: The Final Reckoning**
Youth fools us into believing time is endless. I mocked the prudent—those who saved, built homes, nurtured families. Work bored me; I flitted between jobs, chasing merriment.
Now my “freedom” means a meagre state pension barely covering prescriptions. Hot meals are memories. Some nights, hunger follows me to bed—not that anyone would notice.
Recently, I bumped into Arthur, an old acquaintance. Aged but dignified, he spoke of grandchildren, holidays in Cornwall, a cozy retirement. Clapping my shoulder, he sighed: “Nicholas… you were king of the castle. What’s left?”
I had no answer. Only the weight of regret.
While others built homes, I drank with fair-weather mates in pubs.
While others saved, I splurged on mistresses.
While others planned futures, I chased midnight thrills.
Now, when I need family most, pride chains me. Grandchildren might exist—I’ll die never knowing their names.
**To Those Who Still Have Time**
Don’t be me. Youth fades. Family isn’t a given. Cherish those beside you.
Because one day, you might shout “Hello?” in an empty flat… and hear only your own echo reply.
