Retirement has uncovered years of loneliness.
As soon as I retired, the problems began, I thought. Ageing has a way of exposing solitude thats built up over decades.
Im sixty. For the first time in my life, I feel invisibleto my children, my grandchildren, my ex-husband, even to the world. Yet here I am. Im alive. I go to the chemist, buy bread, sweep the little yard outside my window. But inside, theres nothing but emptiness, growing heavier each morning when I no longer rush to work. When no one calls to ask, Mum, how are you?
Ive lived alone for years. My children are grown, with families of their own, scattered across the countrymy son in Manchester, my daughter in Bristol. My grandchildren are growing up, and I barely know them. I dont see them off to school, I dont knit them jumpers anymore, I dont tell them bedtime stories. Ive never been invited to their homes. Not once.
One day, I asked my daughter:
Why dont you want me to visit? I could help with the children
She replied calmly, but coldly:
Mum, you know why James doesnt like you meddling. You always have your own way of doing things.
I stayed quiet. I felt ashamed. It hurt. I wasnt forcing myself on themI just wanted to be near them. And the answer? He doesnt like you. Not the grandchildren, not my own children. Its as if Ive been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives just down the road, never finds the time to see me. Once a year, a brief birthday text. Like a favour.
When I retired, I told myself: finally, time for me. Ill knit, take morning walks, maybe even sign up for that painting class Id always fancied. But instead of happiness, anxiety settled in.
First came the panic attacksmy heart racing, dizzy spells, sudden terror at the thought of dying. I saw doctors, had tests, MRIs, ECGs. Nothing. One doctor said:
Its all in your head. You need to talk to someone, see people. Youre lonely.
That was worse than a diagnosis. Because theres no medicine for loneliness.
Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashiers voice. Other times, I sit on the bench outside my building, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop for a chat. But everyones in a hurry. Always rushing. And me? Im just here. Breathing, remembering.
What did I do wrong? Why has my family turned away? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked day and nightcooked, ironed their school uniforms, sat with them when they were ill. No drinking, no parties. Everything for them. And now? Im no use to anyone.
Maybe I was too strict. Too controlling. But I only wanted the bestfor them to be decent, responsible. I kept them away from bad influences, from mistakes. And in the end, here I amalone.
I dont want pity. Just answers. Am I really such a bad mother? Or is it just this day and age, where everyones too busy with jobs, mortgages, school runs and no room left for a mother?
People tell me, Find a man. Try dating apps. But I cant. I dont trust anymore. Too many years alone. I havent the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my home. Besides, my health isnt what it was.
Work? I cant go back. At least there, I had colleagueschatting, laughing. Now its silence. So heavy that I turn on the telly just to hear another voice.
Sometimes I wonder: if I vanished, would anyone notice? My children? My ex? The neighbour upstairs? It scares me enough to cry.
But then I get up, go to the kitchen, make a cup of tea. I tell myself: maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will think of me. Call. Text. Maybe I still matter to someone.
As long as theres hopeIm still alive.
