I’m 60. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I don’t exist anymore—not for my ex-husband, my children, my grandchildren, or even the world. I’m still here, of course. I breathe. I go to the chemist’s, buy bread, sweep the little garden patch under my window. But inside, there’s a hollowness, growing heavier with each morning when there’s no job to rush to. When 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, scattered across the country—my daughter in Brighton, my son in Manchester. My grandkids are getting older, and I barely know them. I don’t see them off to school, don’t knit them jumpers, don’t tell them bedtime stories. Not once have they invited me to visit. Not once.

I asked my daughter once:

*Why don’t you want me to come? I could help with the kids…*

*Mum, you know how it is… My husband doesn’t like you. You’re always interfering, and your way of talking—*, she answered.

I fell silent. Hurt, shame, resentment twisted inside me. I wasn’t forcing my way in—I just wanted to be near them. And the answer was: *He doesn’t like you.* Not the grandkids, not my children. I’ve been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in a village nearby, can’t find time to meet. Once a year, a curt holiday text. 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.