I’m sixty now, and for the very first time in my entire life, I feel like I’ve utterly disappeared—not for my estranged ex-husband, not for my grown children, not even for my beloved grandchildren.
Not for the world, it seems.
Of course, I’m physically still here.
I breathe.
I go to the chemist’s shop, buy fresh bread, meticulously sweep the little patch of garden nestled beneath my window.
But inside, there’s a cavernous emptiness that grows heavier and more profound each passing morning.
No demanding job to rush to anymore.
No one calling to ask, with genuine concern, “Mum, how are you really doing today?”
I live entirely alone now.
Have for many, many years.
My children are fully grown adults, each with bustling families of their own—my daughter residing in vibrant Brighton, my son in sprawling Manchester.
My grandchildren are rapidly growing up, and I barely know them at all, a quiet ache in my heart.
I don’t walk them to school in the crisp morning air, don’t meticulously knit them warm jumpers, don’t read them comforting bedtime stories before they drift off to sleep.
I’ve never once been invited to visit their homes.
Not even a single time.
I asked my daughter, just once, mustering all my courage:
“Why don’t you want me to come over, darling?
I could genuinely help so much with the children…”
Her answer, delivered with a chilling finality, was this:
“Mum, you know how it is, really… My husband simply doesn’t like you, you see.
You’re always, always interfering in things.
And the way you talk, Mum… it’s just too much for him.”
I went utterly quiet, struck dumb by her words.
Shame, profound hurt, and something sharp and bitter twisted violently inside me, a knot of raw emotion.
I wasn’t trying to push my way into their lives—I just desperately wanted to be near them, to feel their presence.
But the answer was excruciatingly clear: He doesn’t like you.
Not “we’re terribly busy.”
Not “the kids are overwhelmed right now.”
Just, starkly: He doesn’t like you.
I’ve been completely erased, it seems.
Even my ex-husband, who lives just a few quiet villages over, never seems to have any time for me now.
One cold, impersonal holiday text message a year, sent like an obligatory chore.
When I first retired, I optimistically thought to myself, Finally—time for myself.
I’d knit cozy blankets, take long, peaceful walks, maybe even join that painting class I’d always dreamed of attending.
But instead of the anticipated joy, a crushing dread steadily moved in and settled comfortably within me.
Then came the strange, unsettling spells—dizziness that made the world spin, my heart racing wildly in my chest, this sudden, overwhelming fear that I might inexplicably die out of nowhere, completely alone.
I diligently went to numerous doctors, seeking answers.
Underwent countless ECGs, MRIs, endless blood tests.
Everything consistently came back normal, medically speaking.
One doctor, finally, candidly said:
“It’s all in your head, ma’am.
You’re simply lonely.
You desperately need someone to genuinely talk to.”
That hurt more deeply than any physical diagnosis could have.
There’s no magic pill, it turns out, for profound loneliness.
Sometimes, I purposelessly go to the corner shop just to hear the cashier’s fleeting voice, a brief human connection.
I’ll linger and sit on the worn bench outside, pretending to be deeply engrossed in a book, secretly hoping someone, anyone, might stop and speak to me.
But they don’t, not really.
Everyone’s always rushing by, living their own busy lives.
And I’m just… here.
Sitting.
Breathing.
Remembering.
What did I do so terribly wrong in my life?
Why did my own family drift so incredibly far away from me?
I raised them entirely on my own, you see.
Their father left early in their lives.
I worked long, exhausting hours, cooked countless meals, tirelessly cleaned our home, sat up with them through raging fevers and agonizing heartbreaks.
No drinking, no going out with friends—I truly gave them absolutely everything I had to offer.
And now?
I’m utterly nothing to them.
Maybe I was too strict with them, perhaps.
Maybe I tried far too hard to protect them from the harsh realities of the world.
I just wanted them to grow up safe, strong, and genuinely good people.
I meticulously kept them away from trouble, gave them structure, instilled discipline.
And now?
I’m the one who ended up utterly alone in the end.
I’m not asking for anyone’s pity, truly.
Just… a little understanding, perhaps.
Was I really such a terrible mother after all?
Or is this just the inevitable reality of life now?
Mortgages, frantic school pickups, endless football clubs… and absolutely no emotional space left for Mum?
People often say, with well-meaning but misguided advice, “Join a dating site.
Meet someone new, for goodness sake.”
But I simply can’t.
Not anymore, not after all these years.
I don’t trust easily now.
Years of profound solitude have undeniably hardened me.
I don’t possess the energy, the emotional capacity, to open up my heart again, to let someone entirely new into my fractured world.
And this aging body?
It’s definitely not the same one that once danced freely and dreamed boundless dreams.
Even work was once a cherished escape for me—lighthearted jokes in the office, the comforting predictability of daily routines.
But now, there’s just an oppressive silence.
I leave the television on all day long, just to hear the reassuring sound of a human voice, any voice.
Sometimes I morbidly wonder: if I completely vanished, would anyone at all truly notice my absence?
Not my children, I fear.
Not my ex-husband, certainly.
Not even the quiet neighbour who lives upstairs.
The very thought brings forth a torrent of tears I can no longer hold back.
But still, despite it all, I get up each morning.
I make myself a cup of tea.
I whisper softly to myself: “Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Maybe someone will remember me.
Maybe someone will actually call.”
Maybe… I still profoundly matter.
As long as there’s even a flicker of hope, I’m still here, still breathing.