The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold
Confession of a 60-year-old Woman
Margaret:
This year I turned sixty, and not a single member of my family bothered to ring with a birthday greeting.
I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and a granddaughter, and an ex-husband still living somewhere out there.
My daughter is forty; my son is thirty-five.
Both live in London, having graduated from quite well-regarded London universities. Theyre bright, competent, and doing well. My daughter is married to a senior civil servant, and my son to the daughter of a wealthy London businessman. Both have thriving careers, their own businesses in addition to government jobs, and own property. Life seems stable for them.
My former husband left just after our son finished university, claiming he was tired of our hectic pace, though, in truth, his own rhythm was always leisurelyworking quietly at the same job, spending weekends either with mates or lounging on the sofa, and taking his holidays for weeks on end with family down in Cornwall. I, on the other hand, never took a proper break. I juggled three jobs: engineer in a factory, cleaner in the admin office, and, at weekends, packing shelves at the local Tesco from eight to eight, cleaning every nook and cranny before heading home exhausted.
Everything I earned went to the childrenLondon is expensive, and studies at a renowned school meant they needed smart clothes, and there were always meals out and entertainment to consider.
I became expert at wearing old clothes that I mended or altered myself, kept my shoes patched up and clean. As long as I looked tidy, that was enough. My only entertainment was my dreamssometimes, Id see myself, young and happy, laughing in my sleep.
The moment my husband left, he got himself a new carflashy, expensive. Clearly hed saved up. Our married life had been oddly lopsidedexcept for paying the mortgage, all expenses were on me. He paid the monthly bill, and that was his contribution. I raised and educated our children myself.
The flat we lived in was a solid two-bedroom Victorian conversion I inherited from my nanhigh ceilings, well-kept, spacious. I renovated the box room with a window, just eight and a half square metres, so it could fit a small bed, desk, wardrobe, and shelves. My daughter had that room. My son and I shared a bedroom since I was barely home except for sleep. My husband took the living room. When my daughter moved to London, I shifted into her old room; my son kept his.
The split with my husband was calmno arguments, no squabbling over things, no blame flung about. He wanted to LIVE; I was so wrung out I actually felt relief. No longer did I have to make dinnera starter, main, dessert and pudding. No more laundry for him, no ironing his shirts or organising the wardrobe. Those hours could finally belong to me.
By then Id developed a raft of health issuesbad back, aching joints, diabetes, thyroid problems, nervous exhaustion. I took my first holiday at my main job just to recuperate, kept up my side jobs, and patched myself up as best I could.
I hired a brilliant tradesman and his mate, and together they did a wonderful job on the bathroom over two weeks. That was blisspersonal, just for me!
All the while, I continued sending money to my successful children for birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Fathers Dayeven after grandchildren arrived. Side jobs became a must. I never seemed to have money left for myself. Rarely did anyone remember to congratulate me on special occasionsmostly only if Id called first. I never received gifts.
The deepest wound? Not being invited to either of my childrens weddings.
My daughter told me plainly, Mum, you wouldnt really fit in. Therell be people from the Prime Ministers office.
For my son, I only learnt of his wedding from my daughter after the fact.
At least, I suppose, they didnt ask me to pay for the events.
Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says theres nothing for her in our backwater (though ours is a major city). My son always says, Mum, I simply dont have the time!
There are seven flights from here to London every dayjust two hours away.
What would I call that stage of my life? Perhaps a life of suppressed emotions.
I drifted like Scarlett OHara: Ill think about it tomorrow.
I pressed down my tears and heartache, stifled all feeling, from confusion to despair. I lived like an automaton, programmed solely to work.
Eventually, the factory was bought out by some London investors, and the restructuring began. Us older workers were let go. I lost two jobs at once, but at least my redundancy allowed me to take early retirement. My pension was £850 a monthtry living on that.
I lucked out when the cleaners post opened in my five-storey block. I started cleaning the stairwells for another £850. I kept the Tesco shifts on weekends, decent pay at £135 a shiftthough standing all day left me battered.
I started sprucing up the kitchen at home, doing the work myself. Ordered a new kitchen from my neighboura good job, quick, affordable.
Again, I began saving bits. I dreamed of upgrading the rooms, swapping out some furniture. Plans, always plansnever plans for me! What did I spend on myself? Just food, the cheapest, and medication, which ate up most of my money. The mortgage just kept climbing. My ex-husband suggested I sell the flatour areas desirable, and I could get a good price, buy myself a cosy studio.
But I cant bear the thought. Its my nans legacy; she raised me. My parents are but a distant memory. All my life has passed in that flat.
Strangely, my ex and I remained cordiallike old friends. We occasionally talk; he never discusses his private life. Once a month, hell drop by with a few suppliespotatoes, veg, rice, bottled waterthe heavy things. He refuses money, insists deliveries only bring rubbish. I let him help.
Something in me seems frozentight, closed up. I merely continue, day after day. I work hard. I never dream, never hope. All I know of my daughter and grandchildren is through her Instagram; my sons life flashes past in his wifes feed. Im glad theyre well, thriving, taking holidays, dining out at fancy restaurants.
Maybe I never showed them enough love; perhaps thats why theres none returned. My daughter sometimes checks in, asks how I am. I always say, Im fine. I never complain. Sometimes my son sends a quick voice noteHi Mum, hope alls well.
He once told me he didnt want to hear about problemsnegativity affects him. So I stopped sharingjust Im fine, son.
How much I want to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they dont even know their gran existsa pensioner, a cleaner. Perhaps in their family story, Grandma passed away long ago.
I cant recall the last time I bought something just for myself, save for the occasional pack of underwear and socksthe cheapest available. Ive never had my nails done in a salon, never treated myself to a pedicure. Once a month I get my hair trimmed at the little salon round the corner and dye it myself. At least, through youth and age, Ive kept to a size 14 to 16no need to update my wardrobe.
But I am so afraid that, one day, I wont be able to get out of bedthe pain in my spine is relentless. I fear ending up helpless and housebound.
Perhaps I shouldnt have lived this waynever resting, always denying myself the little pleasures, always saving things for later. But where is later? Its gone. My soul feels hollow, my heart numbedand all around me is emptiness.
I blame no one, nor can I blame myself. I worked all my life, and still do. Im building a little safety net, just in case I cant carry on working. Its not much, but its something. Although, honestly, I know full wellif I ever become bedridden, I wont want to go on. I dont want anyone troubled by me.
Do you know what pains me most? No one has ever given me flowersnot once. Never. Wouldnt it be a bit of a joke if, one day, someone finally brought fresh flowersonly to put them on my grave? You can only laugh, reallyBut this morning, something unexpected happened. I was scrubbing the tiles outside my flat, bent double with the familiar ache tracing my spine, when the neighbours little boya shy six-year-old with a gap-toothed grinappeared at my feet. He was clutching a bundle of dandelions and wild daisies, grubby stems wrapped in a crumpled tissue.
He thrust them out to me, eyes wide and proud.
These are for you, Margaret, he said. Mum says you make everything clean and nice.
I stared in astonishment at the wild little bouquet. The sun caught the petals, turning them gold. For a moment, the weight of years grew lighter. I knelt, ignoring my knees and smiled at himreally smiled, as if Id remembered how.
Thank you, darling, I whispered, voice trembling but clear. Youve made my day.
He darted away, back to his mother waiting by the stairwell, but I cradled those flowers like treasure. For the first time in decades, I didnt rush. I sat down on the steps and let the morning breeze brush my face, watching a handful of petals flutter loose.
And as I breathedin and outI realised life had not been put on hold. All along, it had been happening in small, quiet ways. Not in grand gestures, but in moments like this: a childs kindness, an unexpected bloom, the honest sun upon my cheek.
Perhaps the tragedy wasnt what Id lost, but what Id overlooked.
When evening fell, I set the flowers in a mug of water on my kitchen windowsillmy dandelions, my daisiesgiven by the living hands of a child who saw me. I promised myself, softly and sincerely, that from now on, I wont wait until later. I will notice the light in each ordinary day. I will be my own company, my own joy.
Because, as long as you remain open to lifeeven amidst sorrow, even in solitudethere will always be at least one day, one wild handful of flowers, reminding you that you are here, and that you matter.
