The moment I retired, the trouble began. Age has a way of revealing the loneliness thats been quietly building over the years.
Im sixty. And for the first time in my life, I feel as though I dont existnot to my children, not to my grandchildren, not to my ex-husband, and certainly not to the world.
Physically, Im here. I walk down the street, go to the chemists, buy bread, sweep the patio beneath my window. But inside, theres a hollowness that grows deeper every morning now that I dont have to rush to work. Now that no one calls to ask, *Mum, how are you?*
I live alone. Ive done so for years. My children are grown, each with their own families, living in different citiesmy son in Manchester, my daughter in Brighton. My grandchildren are growing up, and I barely know them. I dont see them off to school, I dont knit scarves for them, I dont read them bedtime stories. Ive never been invited to visit. Not once.
One day, I asked my daughter, *Why dont you want me to come? I could help with the kids*
She answered, calm but cold: *Mum, you know how it is my husband cant stand you. You always interfere, and then theres your ways*
It was a knife to the heart. Humiliating, infuriating, wounding. I wasnt trying to take overI just wanted to be near them. But the message was clear: *Youre not welcome.* Not by my children, not by my grandchildren. Its as if Ive been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in a nearby town, never finds the time to see me. Once a year, I get a stiff Christmas textlike its some sort of favour.
When I retired, I thought, *Finally, time for me.* Id take up knitting, go for morning walks, enrol in that painting class Id always dreamed of. But instead of joy, came dread.
First came strange symptomsheart flutters, dizzy spells, a crushing fear of dying. I saw doctor after doctor. Tests, ECGs, scans all normal. Until one finally said, *Mrs. Whitmore, its emotional. You need to talk to someone, to socialise. Youre very lonely.*
That was worse than any diagnosis. Because theres no pill that cures solitude.
Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashiers voice. Other days, I sit on a park bench with a book, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop. But people are always in a hurry. Everyone has somewhere to be. And me? I just exist. I breathe. I remember.
What did I do wrong? Why has my family pulled away? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked double shifts, cooked, ironed their uniforms, nursed them when they were ill. I didnt drink, didnt go out. I gave them everything.
And now? Im just an afterthought.
Was I too strict? Too controlling? I only wanted the best for them. Wanted them to be good, responsible people. I kept them away from bad influences. And in the end I was left behind.
Im not asking for pity. I just want to understandwas I really such a terrible mother? Or is this just the way of modern lifemortgages, after-school clubs, endless rushingwhere theres no room left for an old woman?
People say, *Find a partner. Try a dating site.* But I cant. I dont trust easily. After so many years alone, I dont have the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my life. And my health isnt what it used to be.
I cant even work now. At least then there was a teamchatter, laughter. Now theres just silence. A silence so heavy I sometimes turn on the telly just to hear voices.
Sometimes I wonderif I disappeared, would anyone notice? Not my children, not my ex, not the neighbour on the third floor. The thought chokes me with fear.
But then I take a deep breath. I get up, make a cup of tea in the kitchen, and tell myselfmaybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will remember. Maybe therell be a call. A letter. Maybe I still matter.
As long as theres hope, Ill stay alive.
