Retirement unveils the loneliness thats been piling up for years.
“Once I retired, the trouble began,” I thought. Funny how growing older shines a spotlight on years of quiet solitude.
Im sixty. For the first time in my life, I feel invisibleto my children, my grandchildren, my ex-husband, even to the world. And yet, here I am. Breathing. Popping to the chemist, buying a loaf at the bakery, sweeping the little patio under my window. But inside? A hollowness that grows heavier each morning when theres no rush to work, no one ringing 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 sprouting up, and I hardly know them. No school runs, no knitted scarves, no bedtime stories. Ive never been invited over. Not once.
One day, I asked my daughter, “Why dont you want me to visit? I could help with the kids”
She replied, calm but frosty, “Mum, you know why. My husband doesnt warm to you. Youre always interfering, and youve got your *way* of doing things.”
I said nothing. Just swallowed the sting. I wasnt imposingjust wanted to be near them. And the answer? *He doesnt warm to you.* Not the grandkids, not my own children. Like Ive been erased. Even my ex, who lives in the next village over, cant be bothered. Once a year, a curt “Happy Birthday” text. As if its a favour.
When I retired, I thought, *Brillianttime for me at last!* Knitting, morning strolls, that painting class Id always fancied. But instead of joy, I got this gnawing dread.
First came the baffling panic attacksheart racing, dizzy spells, sudden terror Id drop dead. Doctors poked and prodded, ordered MRIs, ECGs. Nothing. One sighed, “Its all in your head. You need to talk to someone, see people. Youre lonely.”
Worse than a diagnosis. Because theres no prescription for loneliness.
Sometimes, I go to the supermarket just to hear the checkout girl say, “Paper or plastic?” Other days, I perch on the bench outside my flat, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop for a chat. But everyones in a hurry. And there I sit. Breathing. Remembering.
What did I do wrong? Why has my family turned away? I raised them alonetheir father left early. Worked day and night, cooked, ironed their uniforms, stayed up when they were ill. No drinking, no gallivanting. Everything for them. And now? Im surplus to requirements.
Maybe I was too strict? Too controlling? But I only wanted them to turn out decent. Kept them from bad crowds, bad choices. And heres my reward: silence.
Im not after pity. Just answers. Am I that terrible a mother? Or is this just modern lifemortgages, school runs, football practicewith no room left for Mum?
People say, “Find a man. Try online dating.” But I cant. Too many years alone. No energy to open up, fall in love, let a stranger into my home. And lets be honest, my knees arent what they were.
Works out of the question. Back then, there were colleaguesbanter, laughs. Now? Quiet. So heavy I leave the telly on just to hear another voice.
Sometimes I wonder, *If I vanished, would anyone notice?* My kids? My ex? Mrs. Wilkins from flat three? The thought terrifies me. Enough to cry.
But then I get up, put the kettle on, make a cuppa. I think, *Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will remember me. Call. Text. Maybe I still matter to someone.*
As long as theres a shred of hope, Im still alive.
