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.
