Like he’s doing me a favour. As I retired, I thought: *Finally, 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 joy, dread moved in.
First came the strange spells—sudden dizziness, my heart racing, a fear of dying that gripped me out of nowhere. I went to doctors, had tests, ECGs, MRIs. All normal.
One finally said:
*It’s all in your head. You need to talk to someone. You’re just lonely.*
That was worse than any diagnosis.
As there’s no pill for loneliness. At times, I go to the shop just to hear the cashier speak. Sometimes, I sit on the bench outside my flat, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop.
But everyone’s in a hurry. Places to be, lives to live. And I’m just… here.
Sitting. Breathing. Remembering.
What did I do wrong? Why did my family turn away? I raised them alone.
Their father left early. I worked double shifts, cooked, ironed uniforms, stayed up nights when they were ill. No drinking, no running around—I gave them everything.
And now? I’m nothing to them. Maybe I was too strict.
Maybe I controlled too much. But I wanted what was best for them—to grow up decent, responsible. I kept them from bad crowds, from ruining their lives.
And in the end? I’m the one left behind. I’m not asking for pity.
Just answers. Am I really that terrible a mother? Or is this just how it is now—mortgages, schools, football clubs, and no room left for Mum?
People tell me: *Find a man. Join a dating site.* But I can’t. I don’t trust.
Years alone have made me hard. I’ve no strength left to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my home. My body isn’t what it was.
Working’s no escape anymore. At least at the office there was chatter, jokes. Now?
Silence. So loud I leave the telly on, just to hear a voice. Sometimes I ask myself: if I just vanished, would anyone notice?
Not my kids, not my ex, not the neighbour from the third floor. The thought chokes me with tears. But then I get up.
Make tea. Tell myself: *Maybe tomorrow. Maybe someone will remember.
Call. Text.* Maybe I still matter to someone. As long as hope’s alive, so am I.
