I’m sixty now. Living alone. This isn’t the old age I ever imagined.
I’m sixty. A mother to two grown-up, bright, and beautiful children—a son and a daughter. Five grandchildren, all different ages, all living nearby in London. Yet, despite having such a big family, every holiday finds me by myself. And it’s not just the holidays—loneliness has settled in as my constant companion.
When my husband was alive, I never felt this emptiness. We had each other. We’d spend Christmas and New Year’s together, no fuss, no big feast, just warmth, quiet smiles, and a kind of closeness that felt like home. He was my rock, the one I could lean on no matter what. But after he passed, the silence swallowed me whole. And with each year, that silence grows louder.
December is the hardest. A time meant for twinkling lights, laughter, the scent of cinnamon and pine—instead, it’s just a cold reminder that I’m on my own. My children… they call. Sometimes. But there are years when even that doesn’t happen on time. One year, their Christmas greetings didn’t come until the second or third of January. And still, I smile through the ache, pretend I haven’t noticed. Pretend everything’s fine.
Deep down, though, I know—I’m not needed. Not as a woman, not as a mother, not even as a grandmother. I’m the past, remembered in scraps between their “important” lives. Once, I was everything to them. I washed their clothes, cooked their meals, nursed their fevers, stayed up nights when they were small. I lived for them. Now, their lives rush past without me.
I get it—they have their own families, their own worries. But why is there no room for me in those worries? Every time I ask them to come for Christmas or New Year’s, it’s always the same: “Mum, we can’t this year, we’ve already made plans.” I don’t even ask for much—just an evening. One evening at the table, where I could bake mince pies, simmer mulled wine, lay out the good dishes like I used to.
I always dreamed that as I grew older, my house would be full of voices—grandchildren laughing, wrapping paper rustling, the scent of freshly baked shortbread in the air. I imagined myself bustling about, grumbling about the mess, but feeling truly alive. Needed.
But it never happened. And with each passing year, it’s clearer—those dreams won’t come true. Sometimes it feels like I don’t even exist to them as a person. I’m just a convenience, someone to call when they need a babysitter, but not as a mother, not as a woman.
I don’t tell my children this. Not because I’m afraid—because I know they won’t understand. They’ll say I’m overreacting. That “all mums get a bit sad sometimes.” That “it’s just your age.” It’s not the age that’s heavy. It’s the hollowness in my chest every time I glance at the front door and know—it won’t open.
Maybe one day they’ll realise. When they’re old themselves. When they look back and see that the people who once loved them have slipped away. I don’t wish that on them, no. But I fear by then, it will be too late for me.
So here I am again, on the cusp of another new year, decorating the flat alone. Hanging fairy lights no one will see. Setting up the tree that will have no gifts beneath it. Making a roast I’ll be eating for days. Swallowing tears in the quiet.
Maybe another woman reading this will understand. Maybe someone else is lighting a candle at their empty table, hoping next year will be different. That the phone will ring. That they’ll come. That they’ll remember.
And if you’re someone’s son or daughter… just call your mum. Not tomorrow. Today. Because tomorrow, she might stop waiting.
