Then came the odd symptoms—heart palpitations, lightheadedness, an overwhelming fear of dying. I went from doctor to doctor. They ran test after test: heart scans, brain scans—everything came back clear. Eventually, one doctor looked at me and said:

— Madam, this is emotional. You need to connect with others, socialize. You’re incredibly alone.

That hurt more than any physical diagnosis. Because there’s no medication that cures loneliness.

Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear someone speak to me—the cashier, anyone. Other times, I sit on a bench in the park with a book open on my lap, pretending to read, hoping someone might stop to talk.

But everyone’s always in a rush. Everyone has somewhere to be. And me? I just… exist. I breathe. I remember.

What did I do wrong? Why have my children pulled away? I raised them by myself. Their father left early on. I worked double shifts, made their meals, ironed their clothes, stayed up with them when they were sick.

I didn’t drink, I didn’t party. I gave everything I had.

And now… I feel like a leftover.

Was I too harsh? Too protective? I only wanted them to grow into good people. I kept them safe from the wrong crowds. And in the end… I’m the one left behind.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I just want to know: was I really that bad of a mother? Or is this just what modern life looks like—busy schedules, mortgages, constant hustle—leaving no room for someone like me?

Some people suggest:
— Find someone. Try online dating.
But I can’t. I don’t trust easily anymore. After so many years on my own, I don’t have the strength to open my heart again, to welcome a stranger into my world. And my health isn’t what it used to be.

Working again isn’t an option either. At least back then, there were people—chats, laughter. Now, it’s just quiet. A silence so heavy that I sometimes turn the TV on, just to fill the space with voices.

And sometimes, the thought creeps in: if I disappeared, would anyone notice? My children? My ex-husband? Even the neighbor upstairs? That thought fills me with dread.

But then I take a breath. I get up, go into the kitchen, make a cup of tea, and whisper to myself: maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe someone will think of me. A call. A letter. Some reminder that I still matter.

As long as hope remains, I will keep going.