“As soon as I retired—the problems began”: How old age reveals the loneliness that’s been building for years
I’m sixty. And for the first time in my life, I feel as if I no longer exist—not for my children, my grandchildren, my ex-husband, or even the world itself. I’m here, technically. I go to the chemist, buy bread, sweep the little courtyard outside my window. But inside, there’s an emptiness that grows heavier with every morning I don’t have to rush to work. No one calls just to ask, “Mum, how are you?”
I live alone. Have done for years. My children are grown, with families of their own, all in different cities—my son in Manchester, my daughter in Brighton. My grandchildren are growing up, and I barely know them. I don’t see them off to school, I don’t knit them scarves, I don’t tell them bedtime stories. They’ve never once invited me to visit. Never.
Once, I asked my daughter:
“Why don’t you want me to come? I could help with the kids…”
She replied, calm but cold:
“Mum, you know how it is… My husband doesn’t like you. You always interfere, and, well, you have your own way of doing things…”
I stayed quiet. I felt ashamed, hurt, dismissed. I wasn’t forcing myself on them—I just wanted to be nearby. And in return? “Doesn’t like you.” Not my grandchildren, not my children. It’s as if I’ve been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in the next village over, can’t find time to see me. Once a year, a curt “Happy Christmas.” Like he’s doing me a favour.
When I retired, I thought: at last, time for myself. I’d take up knitting, go for morning walks, sign up for that painting course I’d always dreamed of. But instead of happiness, anxiety moved in.
First came the strange spells—heart palpitations, dizziness, sudden waves of fear for no reason. I went to doctors, had tests, ECG, MRI—all normal. One doctor said:
“It’s all in your head. You need someone to talk to. You’re just lonely.”
That was worse than any diagnosis. Because there’s no pill that cures loneliness.
Sometimes I go to the shops just to hear the cashier’s voice. Sometimes I sit on the bench outside pretending to read, hoping someone will stop. But people are busy. Always rushing somewhere. And I’m just… here. Breathing. Remembering.
What did I do wrong? Why have my family turned away? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked double shifts, cooked their meals, ironed their school uniforms, stayed up nights when they were ill. No drinking, no distractions. Everything for them. And now? I’m no longer needed.
Maybe I was too strict. Maybe I overdid the control. But I only wanted what was best—for them to grow up decent, responsible. I kept them from bad crowds, from throwing their lives away. And in the end? I’m the one left behind.
I’m not asking for pity. I just want to know: was I really such a terrible mother? Or is this just how it is now—mortgages, school runs, hobbies—so much noise that there’s no room left for me?
People say, “Find a man. Try online dating.” But I can’t. I don’t trust anymore. Years alone have made me weary. I don’t have the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my home. And my health isn’t what it used to be.
I can’t work, either. Back then, at least there were colleagues—someone to chat with, to laugh with. Now? Silence. So deafening I leave the telly on just to hear another voice.
Sometimes I wonder: If I just vanished, would anyone notice? Not my children, not my ex, not even the neighbour on the third floor. The thought terrifies me. Brings me to tears.
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 remember. Call. Text. Maybe I still matter to someone.
As long as hope isn’t dead—neither am I.
