The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed
Diary entry of a sixty-year-old woman
Margaret Evans:
I turned sixty this year. Not a single family member called to wish me a happy birthday.
I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even my ex-husband still about.
My daughters forty, my son thirty-five. Both live in London, both graduated from rather esteemed London universities and are clever, successful adults. My daughter married a senior government official, my son married the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both boast thriving careers, own properties, and run their own businesses alongside their day jobs. Life is stable for them.
My ex-husband left as soon as our son finished university. He claimed he was worn out by the pace of family life, though he only ever kept one jobquiet, undemandingand spent his weekends with friends or planted on the sofa, taking month-long summer holidays to visit his family down in Devon. I, meanwhile, never took a holiday. I worked three jobs at onceengineer at the local factory, cleaner in the factory offices, and at weekends, shelf-stacker at the nearby Sainsburys from 8 until 8, plus cleaning the staff and stock rooms.
Every penny I earned went to the childrenLondons an expensive city, and going to a celebrated university meant needing good clothes, decent food, the odd night out.
I learned to make do with old clothes, sometimes refitting things myself, repairing shoes. Clean, tidyenough for me. My only entertainment came in dreams: now and then, I saw myself young, happy, laughing in my sleep.
The moment my husband left, he bought himself a flashy new car with the money he must’ve been saving for years. Our married life had been rather oddhe paid the rent, and that was the extent of his family contribution. I funded the childrens education, our living expenseseverything.
The flat we shared came from my grandmother. Solid, well-kept, high ceilings, classic old build. It had two bedrooms, but Id reworked it into three. Id renovated the box room, eight and half square feet with a window, and made it comfortablea bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves. My daughter used it. My son and I shared a room, though since I only came home to sleep, it hardly mattered. My husband kept to the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her old room, my son kept his.
There were no rows or battles over property when we divorced, no angry accusations. He wanted to LIVE, and I was so exhausted that his leaving felt like a relief. No more cooking meals, ironing his shirts and bedding, folding and hanging laundryI could use that time to simply rest.
By then, Id collected plenty of maladiesback, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves were shot. For the first time, I took a holiday from my main job just to see the doctor, but kept up my other work. Managed to feel a little better.
I hired a brilliant plumber who, with his mate, redid my bathroom in two weeks. It made me so happy! Truly personal happiness, just for myself. Just for once.
All the while, I sent my successful children money instead of presents on birthdays, Christmas, Mothers Day, Father’s Day. Then came the grandchildren. So I never managed to stop the extra shifts; there was never money for myself. Rarely did anyone congratulate me, usually only if I congratulated them first. No gifts.
The most painful thing was not being invited to either of their weddings.
My daughter said honestly, Mum, you wouldnt fit in. Therell be people from the Cabinet Office.
As for my son, I only found out hed got married from my daughter after the fact.
At least they didnt ask for money for the weddings.
Neither child ever visits, despite my open invitations. My daughter once said, Theres nothing for me in that backwaterthough our town has half a million people. My son pleads hes too busy: Mum, I just dont have the time!
There are trains to London every hour, and its only two hours away.
How would I describe those years? Perhaps life silenced by stifled emotions.
I was like Scarlett OHara: Ill think about that tomorrow.
I forced down my tears, suppressed the ache, bottled up every emotion from confusion to despair. I lived like a robotprogrammed to work.
Then our factory got bought by a London firm, reorganisations started, and all of us approaching pension age were made redundant. I lost two jobs, but because of the cuts, I managed to take early retirement. My pension: £800 a month. Its a wonder anyone can live on that.
As luck would have it, a cleaners position opened up in our five-storey blockso I started cleaning the stairwellsanother £800 a month. I kept my weekend shifts at Sainsburysthe pay wasnt bad, £120 per shift, though standing all day was rough.
I began slowly doing up the kitchen myself. Ordered units from the neighbour who fitted them quickly and reasonably.
Once again, I started saving money. Thought about sprucing up the rooms, swapping out worn furniture. The plans kept comingbut never plans for myself. What did I spend on myself? Just cheap foodIve never eaten muchand medicine, which took up most of my budget. The rent kept climbing every year. My ex-husband said, Just sell the flat, this areas in demand, youll get a decent price. Buy yourself a little one-bedroom.
But I cant bear to part with it. Its my grandmothers legacy. I dont remember my parents; she raised me. The flat means everythingits the backdrop of my whole life.
My ex and I managed to keep things friendly; we chat occasionally, like old neighbours. Hes doing well. Never talks about his private life. Once a month, he drives over with potatoes, vegetables, grains, bottled waterthe heavy groceries. He refuses my money, says deliveries bring rubbish produce. I just nod along.
Its as though something inside mes diedeverything knotted up. I work and work. I dream of nothing. Want nothing for myself. I glimpse my daughter and the grandchildren only on her Instagram. My sons life flickers on his wifes feed. Im glad theyre well, healthy, having adventures, dining at restaurants Ill never see.
Maybe I failed to give them enough love; perhaps thats why none returns my way. Sometimes my daughter asks how I am.
I always say Im fine. Never complain.
My son sends a voice note now and then: Hi Mum, hope youre all right.
Once he told me he didnt want to hear about his parents problems, that negativity brings him down. Since then, I answer simply, Yes, love, alls well.
I wish I could hug my grandchildren, but suspect they dont even know I existas if their grandmother is long gone. Probably in the family legend, shes somewhere upstairs.
I dont remember the last time I bought anything just for myself, except perhaps the cheapest underwear and socks. Cant recall ever visiting a salon for a manicure or pedicure. Once a month, I get my hair cut at the local barbers; I colour my hair myself. Its the one thing that pleases me, that Ive worn the same size16/18since youth. No need for a new wardrobe.
What frightens me most is waking one morning unable to get out of bedthe pain in my back never leaves me. I dread becoming helpless.
Perhaps I shouldnt have lived this wayno holidays, no small joys, always working, always saving everything for later. But where is later? Its gone. My soul feels hollowmy heart indifferentand all around me, emptiness.
I dont blame anyone. Nor do I blame myself. Ive worked all my life and keep working now. Just building a small safety net, in case I cant continue. Not much, but enough. Though if Im honest, I know full well that if I end up incapacitated, I wont want to keep livingI dont want to be trouble for anyone.
And do you know the saddest part? In my whole life, no one has ever given me flowers. Not once. Isnt it funny to imagine someone finally bringing fresh blooms to my grave? That would be something to laugh aboutBut tonight something strange happened. As I was leaving Sainsburys, a little girlmaybe seven or eight, little red coat, shiny shoesstepped up and tapped my hand. She held out a crumpled daffodil, the very first of spring.
For you, she said, shy and serious, her mother watching from the doorway. I knelt down, almost afraid to touch it. My hands trembled.
The daffodil was misshapen, half-wilted, but brighter than sunlight. I pressed it to my chest, and the girl flashed a smile so dazzling it startled me, then skipped away, leaving me standing in the car park breathing in the cool evening air. I watched until they disappeared, her laughter echoing faintly.
Inside my flat, I found an empty jam jar, filled it with water, and placed the flower in the centre of my kitchen table. I turned on the radio and hummed along to some old tune, the daffodil catching the last apricot rays filtering through my window.
It wasnt much. But it was something. Maybe, after all these years, it was enough.
And for the first time in as long as I could remember, I did not wait for laterI sat down, let the evening settle over me like a gentle shawl, and admired my solitary flower, its golden head nodding quietly in the dusk.
