When I was thirty, I was the woman everyone said had the world at her feet.
I had a solid admin job, my own rented flat in Manchester, travelled when the mood struck me, and spent weekends with friends eating out, catching a film, or dancing into the night.
Back then, I was with a boyfriend I’d known for almost five years. Yet every time he floated the idea of having a child one day, a peculiar chill swept through me.
Id tell him that nappies and sleepless nights werent something I could picture for myself. Hed quickly change the topic.
My attention was focused on saving money, building my CV, earning certificates, discovering new places. Motherhood was never on my horizon.
At thirty-seven, I met another man whom I believed might be the one. But he had a child from a prior marriagesomething I silently labelled too much responsibility.
One day, he suggested moving in together, but was clear: he hoped for another child in the future.
I panicked and left without looking back. I simply faded out, until he understood.
I remember my sister telling me,
Youll regret letting a good man go, just because you dont want to be a mum.
I laughed it off, thinking she was being melodramatic.
By forty-five, I was at the peak of my career.
Id been promoted, the salary was great, I travelled, bought my first car, and painted my house all on my own. I felt proud.
Still, as I celebrated my achievements, Id see my friends their children at nursery, at school events, at football matches, at ballet performances.
Id think,
What chaos I couldnt bear it.
I was convinced my own life was much more peaceful.
When I was fifty-two, my sister fell seriously ill and needed an operation.
Her children were theretaking turns, bringing food, doing paperwork, sitting with her day and night.
I felt utterly useless.
And suddenly, it hit me: if the same happened to me, there would be no one to call.
Seated in the hospital waiting room, I thought for the very first time:
What if one day, its me?
Who will come for me?
And that was when the first flicker of regret appeared: small, almost silent, but it began.
When I turned sixty, I lost my mother.
Suddenly, every responsibility fell on me
hospital forms, funeral arrangements, bills, clearing out her flat in Sheffield.
My nephews and nieces tried to help, but each had their own families, houses, jobs.
That night, I slept alone, surrounded by bin bags of her clothes, and for the first time I saw what I hadnt wanted to see:
There was no one who needed me.
No one who relied on me.
No one to fill the silence.
And for the very first time, I wondered:
Perhaps I would have been a good mother.
Sundays became hard.
My sisters gathered their familieschildren, grandchildren, sons- and daughters-in-law. Their homes overflowed with noise, laughter, and life.
I sat quietly on a chair, present but apart.
Not because they ignored me, but because I had no place in that circle.
I was the aunt, the sister, but never the mother.
Christmas was harder still.
Everyone hosted their celebrations.
I was always the guest. Never the hostess. Never the heart of anyones world.
Now, at sixty-seven, I wake up alone, eat alone, shop alone, pay bills alone. It isnt a tragedy.
Its simply the truth.
If I fall ill, I ring a cab, go alone to A&E, and sit on a plastic chair with my bag in my lap, and no one asks about me.
If I cry, nobody notices.
When something wonderful happenslike the day I paid my house offthere is no one to share the joy.
Sometimes I stand at the window and watch my neighbours as their children and grandchildren come to visit.
I have no such visitors.
No one to leave my things to.
No one to tell my story to.
I dont regret refusing the pressure to live as others said I ought.
I regret learning, too late, that life is not endless.
Yes, you can live as you wish
But when the years grow heavy, one wish remains:
to have someone to lean on.
