The Syndrome of a Life Forever on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old English Woman Helen: This year, I turned 60, and none of my family even phoned to wish me a happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even an ex-husband still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious London universities. Both are clever and successful. My daughter is married to a high-ranking civil servant; my son’s wife is the daughter of a major London businessman. Both have prosperous careers, several properties each, and their own businesses alongside their government roles—everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son graduated university, saying he was tired of the pace of life. He’d always had a quiet job, spent weekends with friends or on the sofa, and went away for a whole month’s holiday every year to relatives down south. I never took holidays—I juggled three jobs at once: factory engineer, cleaner in the management offices, and on weekends packing shelves at the local supermarket from 8am to 8pm, plus cleaning storerooms and other workspaces. Every penny I earned went to our children—London is expensive, and studying at prestigious universities meant good clothes, decent food, and entertainment. I got used to wearing old clothes, repairing shoes, and patching things up. Always tidy and clean—that was enough for me. My one escape was my dreams, where sometimes I saw myself young and happy, laughing. My husband, once he left, immediately bought a flashy new car. Clearly, he’d managed to save up. The reality of our marriage was odd—I paid for everything except the rent; he paid that, and that was his whole contribution. I educated the children… The flat we lived in was inherited from my nana—a solid, comfortable two-bedroom with high ceilings, converted to three rooms. There was a storeroom (8.5 square metres with a window) which I renovated so it could fit a bed, desk, wardrobe, and shelves. My daughter had this space. My son and I shared a room—I’d only come home to sleep. My husband had the lounge. When my daughter left for London, I moved into her old storeroom, my son stayed in the other room. Our marriage ended without drama—no arguments, no property battles, no blame. He wanted to live, not just exist, and I was so worn out I was actually relieved. No more need to cook full dinners, wash his clothes and sheets, iron and put away; I could actually rest. By then, I had loads of health problems—back, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nervous exhaustion. I finally took a real holiday from work and focused on getting treatment, keeping up my other jobs to pay for it. I hired a brilliant tradesman who, with his mate, did a wonderful bathroom renovation in two weeks—that was my personal happiness, just for me. All these years, I’d sent money instead of gifts to my grown children for birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Later, for my grandchildren too. So I couldn’t stop working; there was never money left for myself. I was rarely congratulated on holidays, and hardly ever received gifts. The biggest hurt was that neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter told me honestly: “Mum, you wouldn’t fit in with the crowd, there’ll be people from the Cabinet Office there.” I only found out about my son’s wedding from my daughter after it was already over. Well, at least they didn’t ask for money for the weddings… Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says there’s nothing for her in our ‘backwater’ (a million-person city in the Midlands). My son always says, “Mum, I’m too busy!” There are seven flights a day to London! It’s just two hours… What would I call that period of my life? Probably ‘a life of suppressed emotions’. I lived like Scarlett O’Hara—”I’ll think about it tomorrow.” I swallowed back tears and pain, stifling everything from bewilderment to despair. I was a robot set to work. Then London investors bought our factory, began reorganising, laid off all us older staff, and I lost both jobs. But it meant I could retire early, and my pension is just £850 a month… Try living on that. Luckily, a cleaning post came up in our five-storey block—so I started cleaning the stairwells: another £850. Kept up weekend packing work at the supermarket—good pay, £120 a shift, though it’s hard being on my feet all day. Began fixing up the kitchen little by little, did it myself—neighbour fitted new cupboards affordably and well. Once again, started saving. Wanted to update the bedrooms, freshen the furniture. But never did I actually make plans for myself! What do I spend on myself? Food, the simplest kind—I’ve never eaten much. And medicine, which costs a lot now. Rent just keeps going up. My ex-husband says, “Sell the flat, it’s a good area, you’ll get a decent price. Buy yourself a studio.” But I can’t. It’s my nana’s place. I have no memory of my parents—my grandmother raised me—and the flat holds my whole life’s story. My ex and I stayed on good terms. Sometimes we chat like old friends; he’s doing well, never discusses his personal life. Once a month, he brings heavy groceries—potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. Won’t take money for it. Says not to use delivery—”you’ll just get rubbish, rotten stuff”. I agree. Something inside me feels frozen—a hard lump. I just keep going. Work a lot. I have no dreams, want nothing for myself. I only see my daughter and grandkids through her Instagram. My son’s life flashes by on his wife’s Instagram. I’m glad they’re well, healthy, enjoying holidays and fancy dinners. Maybe I didn’t give enough love, and now there’s no love for me. My daughter sometimes asks how I am—I always say I’m fine, never complain. My son sends occasional WhatsApp voice notes: “Hi Mum, hope you’re alright.” Once, my son said he didn’t want to hear about family problems—negativity gets him down. So I stopped sharing anything, always just say, “Yes, son, I’m fine.” I want to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know they have a living grandmother—a pensioner-cleaner. Maybe in the family story I’m long gone… I cannot recall the last time I bought myself anything, apart from the occasional underwear or socks—the cheapest. Haven’t been to a beauty salon, manicure, or pedicure… Once a month a haircut at the local barbers. Colour my hair myself. At least I wear the same dress size at sixty as I did at twenty—16/18, no need to update the wardrobe. More than anything, I fear one day I won’t be able to get out of bed—my back hurts all the time. I’m terrified of being left helpless. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way, forever working, never resting, never allowing small joys, always waiting for ‘later’. But where is ‘later’? It’s gone… My soul feels empty… my heart, completely indifferent… and all around me, nothing but emptiness. I don’t blame anyone. Nor can I blame myself. I’ve always worked, and still work. I’m building up a safety cushion—just in case I can’t work. It won’t be much, but it’s something… Though, honestly, if I become bedridden, I wouldn’t want to live—don’t want anyone to have trouble because of me. And you know what’s saddest? No one has ever given me flowers—not once in my life. Never. Wouldn’t it be ironic if someone finally brought fresh flowers for my grave… That would be a real joke.

The Syndrome of a Life Forever on Hold
Confession of a 60-year-old woman

Margaret:

This year, I turned 60, and none of my family even called to wish me a happy birthday.

I have a daughter, a son, a grandson and a granddaughter, and theres my ex-husband as well.

My daughter is 40, my son is 35.

Both live in London, both graduated from top universities there. Theyre clever, successful. My daughter is married to a senior government official and my son to the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers and own several properties; outside of public service, each has a business of their own. Everythings stable.

My ex-husband left when our son finished university. He said he was tired of living at such a pace. Mind you, his own work was quiet and easy, he had a single job, spent weekends with friends or resting on the sofa, and took the whole month for holidays with family on the south coast. I never took leave, working three jobsengineer at the local factory, cleaner for the admin offices there, and packer at the nearby supermarket every weekend from eight till eight, on top of cleaning utility rooms.

Everything I earned went straight to the childrenLondon is expensive and university meant smart clothes. Then there was food, fun, outings.

I got used to wearing old clothes, patching things up and repairing shoes. Always clean and neat. That was enough for me. My only luxury was my dreamsnow and then Id see myself happy and laughing, young again, in sleep.

The moment my husband left, he switched cars, bought a fancy new one. Clearly, he’d had savings. Our marriage was strange; all expenses except for the rent were down to me. He took care of rent, and that was the extent of his contribution. I paid for the childrens education…

The flat we lived in came from my grandmothera lovely, well-kept Victorian with high ceilings. It was a two-bedroom, which I had turned into a three-bedroom. There was a storeroom with a window, about nine square metres, which I renovated to fit a bed, desk, wardrobe and shelves. My daughter lived there. My son and I shared a room, though I only turned up to sleep. My husband had the sitting room. When my daughter left for London, I moved into the storeroom. My son stayed put.

Our divorce was without dramano fights, no division of assets, no blame. He wanted to LIVE, not just exist, and I was so exhausted that I actually felt relief No more cooking three courses and dessert with compote. No more laundry for him, his sheets, no more ironing and foldingat last, those hours could be mine, for resting.

By then, Id picked up a pile of health problemsmy back, my joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves shot. For the first time, I took holiday from my main job and focused on getting treatment. Couldnt drop my extra work, but I got a little better.

I hired a wonderful builder and he and his mate redid my bathroom in just two weeks. I was over the moon! That was happinesspersonal happiness, for me alone!

All these years, instead of gifts for birthdays, Christmas, Mothers Day, I sent my successful children money. Then my grandson and granddaughter came alongso stopping my weekend jobs was out of the question. Never enough left for myself. I rarely got greetings or gifts for holidaysusually only after Id sent mine first.

The hardest part? Neither my son nor daughter invited me to their weddings.

My daughter told me bluntly: Mum, you just wouldnt fit in. Therell be people from the Cabinet there.

I learnt of my sons wedding from my daughter after it was already over.

Well, at least they didnt ask me to pay for their weddings

None of my children visit, though I always invite them. My daughter says theres nothing for her in this backwater (a county town of a million people!). My son always says, No time, Mum!

There are flights to London seven times a dayyou can get there in exactly two hours

How would I describe that period of my life? Probably as a life of bottled-up feelings

I was living like Scarlett OHaraIll think about it tomorrow

I suppressed my tears and pain, held back every feeling from confusion to despair. I was like a robot programmed to work.

Then the factory was bought by London investors, and restructuring began. Us older workers were let goI lost two jobs at once, but could take retirement early because of the cuts. Pension paid me £200 a week Try and live on that.

I was luckyan opening appeared for a cleaner in our five-storey, four-entrance building. I took that jobanother £200 a week. Kept the supermarket weekend shifts too; they paid well£30 a shift. Hard part was being on my feet all day.

I started slowly fixing up the kitchen, did it all myself, ordered some new cabinets from a neighbour, who did a great job and offered a decent price.

So I started saving again, thinking I could refresh the rooms, change some furniture. Those were my plans only, I never seemed to make plans for myself! What did I actually spend on me? Only food, and Ive never been a big eater. And medicinethe cost was steep. Rent kept rising, adding stress. My ex-husband used to say, Sell this flat, its a good areayoull get a great offer. Buy yourself a one-bed.

But I cant bear to part with it. Memories of my grandmother. My parents I hardly remember. Gran raised me. The flat means the world to me; its the place where my whole life happened.

I managed to keep things friendly with my ex; were like old acquaintances. Hes doing fine. He never talks about his personal life. Once a month he pops round, brings me groceriespotatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. All the heavy stuff. Wont accept money, says deliveries bring rubbish food. I agree.

Inside, I feel frozeneverything knotted up. I keep going, working hard, but dont hope for anything. Dont want anything for me. I only see my daughter and grandkids through her Instagram. My sons life flashes up now and then on his wifes Instagram. It makes me glad that theyre doing well, happy and healthy, holidaying in amazing places, dining at fancy restaurants.

Maybe I didn’t show them enough love. So theres none now in return. My daughter occasionally asks how I am; I always say, Im fine. Never complain. My son sometimes sends voice notes on WhatsApp: “Hi Mum, hope youre alright.”

Once my son told me he never wanted to hear about problems at home, it drags him down. So I stopped talkingjust say, Yes, son, alls fine.

I wish I could hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they dont even know their grandmothers alivea retired cleaner. For all they know, grannys been gone for years

I cant recall buying anything just for myselfmaybe the occasional underwear and socks, always the cheapest. Ive never been to a salon for nails or a pedicure Once a month I get a trim at the local hairdresser. I dye my hair myself. The only thing that cheers me is I still wear the same size as when I was youngsize 18/20. No need to update my wardrobe.

Im terribly scared one day I wont be able to get out of bedthese pains in my back are relentless. Terrified of being stuck, unable to move.

Maybe I shouldnt have lived the way I did, without rest, without small joys, always working, forever postponing everything for later. Where is this later? Its gone My soul is empty My heart is numb And all around me, emptiness

I dont blame anyone. But I cant blame myself either. Ive always worked and still do. Im building a safety net, in case I cant work one day. Not much, but its something Although lets be honest: I know perfectly well if Im bedridden, I wont want to go on I dont want to be a burden to anyone.

Do you know whats the saddest thing? No-one has ever given me flowers Not once It would be ironic if the first time someone brought fresh flowers, it was to my grave Makes you want to laugh

Looking back, I’ve realised that giving everything to others without ever granting myself a little happiness leaves a life hollow and unfinished. No matter how busy we are, it’s never too late to cherish ourselves, for our own sake, and remember: the small joys we give ourselves today aren’t selfishthey’re the seeds for the love and kindness we hope to find in the world.