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.
