When I turned thirty, I was confidently known as that woman who had the whole world at her feet.
Id landed a respectable job in admin, had my own rented flat, jetted off on holidays on a whim, and spent weekends out with friendsdinners, films, the odd night dancing (dont judge, the shoes were worth it).
Back then, Id been with my boyfriend for almost five years. But every time he floated the idea of maybe having a child someday, Id shiver like Id just seen the electricity bill.
Id tell him nappies and sleepless nights simply werent my vision of the good life. Hed shrug and change the subject.
I was all about saving, climbing the career ladder, collecting certificates, and seeing the world. Motherhood? Not on my to-do list.
At thirty-seven, I met another chapmade me think something serious might finally be on the horizon. Only, he already had a child from a previous relationship. For me, that spelled responsibility in flashing neon lights.
One day, he suggested we move in together, but made it very clear he hoped for another child one day.
I panicked and boltedghosted him, really, until he got the hint.
I remember my sister told me:
Youll regret letting a good man go just because you dont want to be a mum.
I laughed. I thought she was being melodramatic.
By forty-five, I was thriving.
Promoted, earning handsomely in pounds, buying my own car, painting the whole house by myself (except the ceilingIm not a miracle worker). I was actually quite chuffed with myself.
Yet, while I basked in my solo successes, Id watch my friends at childrens parties, school runs, football on Saturdays, ballet recitals.
Id tell myself:
What a madhouse I couldnt stand it.
I was convinced my life was far more serene. More manageable.
At fifty-two, things shifted. My sister fell seriously ill and needed an operation.
Her children rallied around hervisiting, switching off, bringing food, helping with forms.
I felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
If I ever found myself in her shoes, thered be no one to ring.
As I sat in the hospital waiting room, for the first time, a nagging thought pushed through:
What if thats me one day?
Whos going to turn up for me?
Thats when the first regrets started. Small, quiet. But there, all the same.
At sixty, I lost my mum.
Suddenly, everything landed on me: sorting the paperwork, arranging the funeral, closing accounts, emptying her house.
My nieces and nephews helped out, but they each had their own kids, homes, deadlines.
That night, I slept alone, surrounded by bin bags stuffed with her old clothes, and finally glimpsed what Id never wanted to acknowledge:
There was no one who needed me.
No one relying on me.
No one to fill the emptiness.
And, for the first time ever, I wondered:
Could I have made a decent mum after all?
Sundays became tricky.
My sisters gathered with their children, grandchildren, sons- and daughters-in-law.
Their houses burst at the seams with noise, laughter, chaos.
I sat quietly at the edge, present but on the sidelines.
Not ignoredjust without a place in that lively whirl.
I was the auntie, the sister, never mum.
Christmas? The real test.
Everyone planned family dos.
I was the guest. Never the host. Never the heart of anyones universe.
Now, at sixty-seven, I get up alone, eat alone, do my food shop alone, pay the bills alone. Its not tragedyits just the facts.
If I fall ill, I call myself a cab, take myself to A&E, and amuse myself in the waiting room, bag on my lap, nobody to ask how Im doing.
If I feel blueno one knows.
If something brilliant happenslike the day I paid off my mortgageno ones there to do a little victory dance with me.
Sometimes I stand at the window and watch the neighbours welcomed by their children and grandchildren.
I never get those visits.
I have no one to leave things to.
No one asking for my old stories.
I dont regret dodging society’s pressure.
I do regret realising too late that life isnt infinite.
Yes, you can live exactly as you please
But when the years start to weigh, the only wish left is simple:
To have someone to lean on.
