Retirement has exposed the loneliness built up over the years.
“Ever since I retired, the troubles began” how old age reveals a solitude thats been growing for years.
Im sixty. For the first time in my life, I feel like I no longer exist to 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 under my window. But inside, theres emptiness, growing heavier with every morning I dont have to rush to work. With every day 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 different cities my son in Manchester, my daughter in Bristol. My grandchildren are getting bigger, and I barely know them. I dont see them off to school, I dont knit them scarves anymore, I dont tell them bedtime stories. Ive never once been invited to their homes. Never.
One day, I asked my daughter:
“Why wont you let me visit? I could help with the children”
She answered calmly, but coldly:
“Mum, you know why My husband doesnt warm to you. You interfere, and you have your own way of doing things”
I said nothing. I felt ashamed. It hurt. I wasnt forcing myself on themI just wanted to be near them. And in return: “He doesnt warm to you.” Not the grandchildren, not the children. As if Id been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in the next town over, never finds time to see me. Once a year, a short birthday message. Like a favour.
When I retired, I thought: finally, time for myself. Ill knit, take morning walks, join painting classes like I always dreamt. But instead of happiness, anxiety settled in.
First came the strange spellsmy heart racing, dizzy spells, sudden fear of dying. I saw doctors, had tests, MRIs, ECGs. Nothing. One doctor told me:
“Its 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 flat, pretending to read, hoping someone will talk to me. But people are busy. Always in a rush. And Im just there. 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 night, cooked meals, ironed their school uniforms, stayed up when they were ill. I didnt drink, didnt go out. Everything for them. And now, Im of no use.
Maybe I was too strict? Too controlling? But I meant well. I wanted them to be good, responsible people. I shielded them from bad influences, from mistakes. And in the end, here I amalone.
Im not asking for pity. Just understanding: was I such a bad mother? Or is this just how it is noweveryone with their own worries, mortgages, school runs, activities no room left for their mum?
People tell me, “Find a man. Sign up to a dating site.” But I cant. I dont trust anymore. Too many years alone. I havent the energy to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my home. Besides, my health isnt what it was.
Work isnt an option anymore. Before, there were colleagueschatting, laughing. Now, silence. So thick I turn on the telly just to hear a voice.
Sometimes I wonder: if I disappeared, would anyone notice? My children? My ex? The neighbour on the third floor? It frightens me. Enough to make me cry.
But then I get up, go to the kitchen, make a cup of tea. I think: maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will think of me. Call. Text. Maybe I still matter to someone.
As long as theres a little hope left, Im still alive.
