I’m sixty, and for the first time, I feel invisible—not to strangers, but to my own children, my grandchildren, even my ex-husband. I exist physically—I shop, sweep the patio—but inside, it’s hollow. Since retiring, no one calls to ask, “Mom, how are you?” My son lives in Barcelona, my daughter in Seville. I’ve never been invited to visit. I don’t know my grandkids. When I once asked why, my daughter said, “Mom, you’re always meddling. My husband doesn’t like it.” I was crushed.

Even my ex, who’s nearby, sends a cold Christmas message once a year.

I thought retirement meant peace. Instead, I got panic attacks, dizziness, fear. A doctor told me it’s loneliness. That was worse than any illness. I wander supermarkets just to hear a voice. I sit on benches pretending to read, hoping someone might talk to me.

I gave my life to my children. I was strict, yes, but loving. Was that wrong?

I’m not asking for pity. I just want to know: did I really deserve this silence?

Sometimes, I wonder if I disappeared—would anyone notice?

But then I whisper: maybe tomorrow someone will remember.

And so, I go on. Because hope still lives.