I’m sixty years old, living alone. This isn’t the old age I’d imagined for myself.
I’ve got two grown children—a son and a daughter—both clever and good-looking. There are five grandchildren as well, all different ages, all living nearby. But despite having such a big family, every holiday comes and goes with just me for company. And it’s not just holidays—loneliness has become my shadow.
When my husband was alive, the emptiness never settled. We had each other. We’d spend Christmas and New Year’s quietly, no fuss, no big gatherings—just warmth, smiles, and something gentle between us. He was my anchor, the one I could lean on when I needed to. When he passed, I fell into silence. And year by year, that silence grows louder.
December’s the worst. A time meant for laughter, the scent of cinnamon and pine—yet for me, it’s just a cold reminder that I’m on my own. My kids do call. Sometimes. But there are years when the phone doesn’t ring till the second or third of January. And still, I smile through it, pretend not to mind.
But deep down, I know—I’m not needed anymore. Not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a grandmother. I’m just a memory they revisit in passing, between their *important* lives. And yet, once, I was everything to them. Washed their clothes, fed them, sat up through fevers. But now their lives rush on without me.
I understand—they have families of their own, their own worries. But why isn’t there room for me in those worries? Every time I ask them to come for Christmas or New Year’s, it’s always, *”Mum, we’ve already got plans this year.”* And I don’t ask for much—just one evening. One evening where I could bake mince pies, make mulled wine, set the table like I used to.
I always thought, growing older, my house would be full of noise—children laughing, wrapping paper rustling, the smell of roast dinner. I imagined grumbling about the racket but feeling alive, needed.
But it never happened. And with each year, it’s clearer—that dream’s gone. Sometimes I think I don’t exist to them as a person anymore. Just a function—someone to babysit in a pinch, not a woman, not a mother.
I don’t tell them this. Not because I’m afraid—but because I know they won’t understand. They’ll say I’m overreacting, that *”all mums get like this,”* that *”it’s just your age.”* But it’s not age that weighs on me. It’s staring at the front door, knowing no one’s going to walk through.
Maybe one day they’ll get it. When they’re old themselves, looking back, realizing the people who once stood beside them are gone. I don’t wish it on them—but I fear, by then, it’ll be too late for me.
And so here I am, another year’s end, decorating the house alone. Hanging lights no one will see. Putting up a tree no one will gather around. Making a Christmas pud I’ll eat for days. Swallowing tears no one hears.
Maybe some women reading this will understand. Maybe someone else is lighting a candle at an empty table, hoping next year will be different. That the phone will ring, that the door will open.
And if you’re someone’s son or daughter—just call your mum. Not tomorrow. Today. Because tomorrow might be too late.
