Im 69 now, and its been six months since my husband passed away. Forty-two years we spent side by side. We never had children it was always just us two. Our work, our routines, our little everyday joys kept us company.
It all began in such an ordinary way: tiredness, aches that would come and go, trips to the GP that didnt seem urgent at the time. Then came the tests, the hospital stays, the treatments. Through every bit of it, I stayed by his side.
I learnt the times for his tablets, memorised what foods he had to give up. I could tell just by his eyes when the pain was keeping him awake, and Id sit up too, holding his hand, because sometimes all you can do is be there.
Id wake before him in the mornings, just to fix him breakfast. When he was too weak to manage a bath alone, Id help. I tried to distract him with stories about small, everyday things so his mind wouldnt linger on the pain. But at times, hed fall silent. Not because he didnt want to reply, but because his body was beginning to fail.
The day he left was quiet. He was in bed, holding my hand. No dramatic words. No grand farewell. One moment he was with me, the next he was simply gone.
I rang 999. But it was too late.
The day of the service felt surreal. Faces I hadnt seen in years filled the chapel. They said the familiar things: He was a good man, Hes at peace now, You must stay strong. I nodded distractedly, not really knowing what I was agreeing to.
Then everyone left.
And the house it grew so vast. Not because its large, but because theres no life inside it any longer.
The nights are the hardest. I go to bed early, just to escape the silence. We used to watch the news together; hed always make witty remarks, make me laugh, then offer to make tea.
Now, I keep the TV on for the background chatter to fill the emptiness with voices that arent mine.
There are no children for me to call. No grandchildren. Theres no one I can tell about my aching back, or how the GPs changed my tablets, or that I felt faint and there was no one to pass me a glass of water.
Sundays weigh especially heavy. We used to stroll through the park, buy a crusty loaf from the bakery, and walk slowly home as if time truly did belong to us. He was always a shade slower than me, and Id tease him for being stubborn. Hed just grin.
Now I walk alone.
People look at me with pity or dont look at all. In the shop, I only pick up the essentials, unsure who Im even cooking for anymore.
Some days, I dont speak to a single soul.
Entire days, sometimes.
Im caught off guard when a neighbour says hello. My own voice sounds foreign, as if I havent used it in ages.
I dont regret that we never had children. Yet only now do I truly know what it means to grow old on your own.
Everything slows down. Becomes heavier. Quieter.
Nobodys waiting for you.
No one asks if you got home safely.
No one is concerned if youve remembered your pills.
Im still here simply because what else is there to do? I get up, I do what needs doing, I go back to bed. I dont want pity. I dont need anyone to feel sorry for me.
But I need to say it just once:
When you lose the person youve shared your life with, youre left in a place where nothing else seems to matter at all.
