**Diary Entry – December 23rd**
I’m sixty years old. I live alone. And this kind of old age—well, I never truly saw it coming.
I have two grown children, a son and a daughter—both bright, both beautiful. Five grandchildren, all different ages, all living in London. Yet despite such a big family, every Christmas, every birthday, I find myself alone. Not just holidays, either. Loneliness has settled in like a shadow I can’t shake.
When George was alive, the emptiness never touched me. We were enough for each other. New Year’s, Christmas—just us, no fuss, no grand feasts. But there was warmth, quiet laughter, a kind of closeness you can’t fake. He was my rock, the steady hand I could lean on. After he passed, silence swallowed me whole. And every year, it grows louder.
December’s the hardest. A month meant for twinkling lights and mince pies, the scent of cinnamon and pine—for me, it’s just a cold reminder that no one’s coming. The children… they ring. Sometimes. Some years, the call doesn’t come until January 2nd or 3rd. I smile through the ache, pretend I don’t notice the delay. Act like it’s fine.
Deep down, I know the truth—I’m not needed anymore. Not as a mother, not as a grandmother. I’m a footnote in their lives, something they remember in passing between “important” things. But once, I was their world. Washed their clothes, bandaged their knees, sat up with them through fevers. Lived for them. Now their lives rush past me without a glance.
I understand—they’ve got their own families, their own worries. But why is there no room left for me? Every time I ask them round for Christmas or New Year’s, it’s: “Mum, we’ve already made plans.” I’m not asking for much. Just one evening. One dinner where I could bake my custard tarts, simmer the mulled wine, lay the table like I used to.
I always imagined growing old with a house full of noise—grandchildren’s laughter, rustling wrapping paper, the clatter of dishes after supper. I thought I’d grumble about the mess but secretly love every second of it. Feel alive. Wanted.
It didn’t happen. And each year, the truth stings sharper: those dreams are just that—dreams. Sometimes, I wonder if they even see me as a person anymore. More like a backup plan—someone to mind the kids in a pinch, but not a woman, not a mother with her own heartaches.
I don’t tell them this. Not because I’m afraid—because they wouldn’t understand. They’d say I’m being dramatic. “All mums get melancholy sometimes.” “It’s just your age.” But it isn’t age that weighs me down. It’s the emptiness in my own reflection, staring at the front door, knowing it won’t open.
Maybe one day, they’ll see it. When they’re old themselves. When they turn around and realise the people they took for granted are gone. I don’t wish that on them—God, no. But I fear by then, it’ll be too late for me.
So here I am, days before Christmas, hanging tinsel no one will see. Propping up a tree with no gifts underneath. Making a roast dinner I’ll be eating for days. Swallowing tears because there’s no one to hear them.
If there’s another woman reading this—maybe you know. Maybe you, too, light a candle at an empty table, hoping next year will be different. That the phone will ring. That they’ll remember.
And if you’re a son or daughter reading this—call your mum. Not tomorrow. Today. Because tomorrow, she might stop waiting.
*—Alistair Whitmore*
