My name is Teresa. I’m 75 years old and I live alone in a small apartment in Bologna.
Since I retired, more than ten years ago, my life has grown increasingly silent. At first, I thought: “Finally, some time for myself.”
I imagined myself calmly embroidering, strolling through Margherita Park, taking that painting class I’d always wanted.
But day after day, the silence began to weigh more than any tiredness I had ever known.
I have two children: Marco lives in Milan, Chiara in Naples. Each with their own family, their own commitments, their own lives. I truly understand that.
But sometimes I feel as if I’ve been forgotten.
My grandchildren have grown up far from me.
I’ve never taken them to school, never baked a cake with them, never told them a bedtime story.
They’ve never invited me to a party or a Sunday together. Not even once.
Once I asked my daughter:
“Why don’t you want me to visit? I could help with the children…”
And she replied, her voice calm but cold:
“Mum, you know… My husband isn’t very fond of you. You always meddle, you have that way about you…”
I stayed quiet. It hurt.
Because I didn’t want to impose, only to be near. But the message was clear: “You’re not welcome.”
My ex-husband lives in a small town nearby. We haven’t seen each other for years. At Christmas, maybe a message. Cold. Mechanical.
And here I am, in Bologna.
My days all look alike: I wake up early, sweep the balcony, go buy bread, cook just for myself. I leave the television on, just to hear some voices in the house.
At first, I thought it was just a phase. But then strange symptoms arrived: palpitations, dizziness, fear of dying alone in my sleep.
I’ve seen so many doctors. Test after test. Everything fine.
Until one of them said to me:
“Mrs. Teresa, you’re not sick. You’re lonely.”
And that sentence hurt more than any diagnosis. Because there’s no medicine for loneliness.
Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashier’s voice. Other times I sit on a bench with an open book, pretending to read, hoping someone will speak to me. But everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is rushing somewhere. And I… I stay here.
I often ask myself: Did I do something wrong?
I raised my children alone. Their father left early.
I worked without rest, cooked, cleaned, ironed, sacrificed.
I was strict, yes, but to protect them. To raise them well.
And now… I’m alone.
I’m not looking for pity. Only answers.
Was I truly a bad mother? Or is this simply the rhythm of modern life, where there’s no longer room for an old woman?
Some tell me: “Find a companion, try the internet.” But I can’t. I don’t trust it. After so many years alone, I no longer have the strength to start over. And my health isn’t what it used to be.
I can’t even work anymore. Before, at least, there were colleagues, chats, laughter. Now only silence.
A silence so dense I turn the TV on just to avoid hearing my own thoughts.
Sometimes I think: if I disappeared tomorrow… would anyone notice? My children? My grandchildren? The neighbor upstairs?
Then I get up, make myself a herbal tea, sit in the kitchen and tell myself:
“Maybe tomorrow someone will remember me. Maybe someone will call. Will write. Maybe I still matter to someone.”
As long as I have even a thread of hope… I’ll stay here.
I no longer expect grand gestures.
A phone call once a week would be enough to change my days.
A video call to see my grandchildren’s faces. A sincere “How are you, Mum?”
I don’t want parties, gifts, or big words.
I just want to know that somewhere, there’s still a little corner in the heart of those I raised with so much love.
That’s why, if you who are reading this have an elderly mother…
Don’t wait for a special date.
Don’t wait for her to ask.
Call her. Go visit her. Listen to her. Hug her.
Because time—the time that runs so fast—one day will take everything away.
And it will never come back.
Teresa ❤️❤️❤️
