I am sixty years old. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I no longer exist: not for my children, not for my grandchildren, not for my ex-husband, not even for the world.
Physically, I am here. I walk down the street, I go to the pharmacy, I buy bread, I sweep the patio under my window. But inside, there is an emptiness that grows bigger every morning, now that I no longer have to rush to work. Now that no one calls to ask: “Mom, how are you?”
I live alone. I have for a long time. My children are grown, they have their own families, and they live in other cities: my son in Barcelona, my daughter in Seville. My grandchildren are growing up, and I hardly know them. I don’t see them going to school, I don’t knit scarves for them, I don’t tell them bedtime stories. I have never been invited to visit them. Not even once.
One day I asked my daughter:
— Why don’t you want me to come? I could help you with the kids…
And she replied, in a calm but cold voice:
— Mom, you know… My husband doesn’t like you. You’re always meddling in everything, and besides, you have your way of being…
That hurt me deeply. It made me feel ashamed, angry, and hurt. I wasn’t trying to impose myself, I just wanted to be close. But the message was clear: “You’re not welcome.” Neither by my children nor by my grandchildren. It’s as if I’ve been erased. Even my ex-husband, who lives in a nearby town, never finds time to see me. Once a year, I get a dry Christmas message. As if it were a favor.
When I retired, I thought: finally, time for myself. I’ll start knitting, go for morning walks, take that painting class I always dreamed of. But instead of joy, anxiety arrived.
First came the strange symptoms: palpitations, dizziness, a deep fear of dying. I went from doctor to doctor. They ran tests, ECGs, MRIs… everything came back normal. Until one doctor said to me:
— Ma’am, it’s emotional. You need to talk to someone, socialize. You are very alone.
And that was worse than any diagnosis. Because there is no pill that cures loneliness.
Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashier’s voice. Other times I sit on a park bench with a book, pretending to read, hoping someone might approach me. But people are always in a hurry. Everyone is headed somewhere. And me… I simply exist. I breathe. I remember.
What did I do wrong? Why did my family drift away? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked double shifts, cooked, ironed their uniforms, took care of them when they were sick. I didn’t drink, I didn’t go out. I gave everything I had.
And now… I’m just extra.
Was I too strict? Too controlling? I only wanted the best for them. I wanted them to become good, responsible people. I kept them away from bad influences. And in the end… I was left alone.
I’m not looking for pity. I just want to understand: was I really such a bad mother? Or is this simply the rhythm of modern life — mortgages, after-school activities, endless rushing — where there’s no space left for an old woman?
Some people tell me:
— Find yourself a companion. Sign up online.
But I can’t. I don’t trust easily. After so many years alone, I no longer have the strength to open up, to fall in love, to let a stranger into my life. And my health isn’t the same anymore.
I can’t work either. At least back then there was a team: conversations, laughter. Now there’s just silence. A silence so heavy that sometimes I turn on the TV just to hear voices.
Sometimes I think: if I disappeared, would anyone notice? Not my children, not my ex-husband, not even the neighbor from the third floor. And that thought drowns me in fear.
But then I breathe deeply. I get up, I make some tea in the kitchen, and I tell myself: maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will remember. Maybe a call. A letter. Maybe I still matter.
As long as there is hope, I will stay alive.
