I’m sixty years old. And for the first time in my life, I feel invisible—not to my children, not to my grandchildren, not to my ex-husband, not even to the world around me.

Sure, I exist in the physical sense. I walk the streets, stop by the pharmacy, pick up a loaf of bread, sweep the patio outside my window.

But inside, it feels like something is missing—a hollow space that only seems to grow bigger with each morning, now that I no longer have to rush off to work.

Now that no one picks up the phone and says, “Mom, how are you?”

I live on my own. I’ve been doing so for quite some time. My kids are grown now, with their own families, living in different cities—my son in Barcelona, my daughter in Seville.

My grandchildren are growing up, but they feel like strangers. I don’t get to watch them head off to school, or knit them scarves, or read them stories at night. I’ve never once been invited to visit. Not a single time.

One day, I asked my daughter:

— Why don’t you want me to come? I could give you a hand with the kids…
She responded calmly, but there was a chill in her tone:

— Mom, it’s just… My husband doesn’t really like you. You tend to interfere, and well, you have your own way of doing things…

Her words hit hard. I felt embarrassed, hurt, and angry all at once. I wasn’t trying to impose. I just wanted to be present.

But the message was loud and clear: “You’re not wanted.” Not by my children, not by their children.

I feel like I’ve been erased. Even my ex-husband, who only lives a town away, never seems to have time. Once a year, I get a dry Christmas greeting—as if he’s checking a box.

When I retired, I thought: at last, I’ll have time for myself. I’ll start knitting, take long walks in the mornings, sign up for that painting class I always dreamed about. But instead of feeling excited, I was filled with anxiety.

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.