Loneliness in a Crowd: Why I’m Left Alone with Two Children
My name is Veronica. I’m 32 years old, teetering on the edge of despair as I raise my two young sons completely alone. Recently, I ended up in hospital, gasping in pain, but I had to refuse treatment. Why? Because there’s no one to care for my boys. My parents, my ex-mother-in-law, my former husband—they’ve all turned their backs on me. Surrounded by people, I feel as if I’m stranded on a desert island. My soul screams: why is life so cruel to me? Am I really to blame for this endless loneliness?
I live in a small town near Manchester. My sons, Oliver and Daniel, are my entire world. Oliver is five, Daniel only three. They are my light, but also my heavy burden. Not long ago, I felt so ill I had to call an ambulance. At the hospital, the doctors insisted I be admitted, but I clenched my fists and signed the refusal form. How could I stay in a ward knowing my boys were at home with no one to feed them, tuck them in, or hold them? I returned to them, swallowing tears and pain, because there’s no one to lend a hand.
My parents, Richard and Margaret, erased me from their lives long ago. Dad still works, Mum is retired, but to them, my children and I don’t exist. They’ve always worshipped my brother, James. He got all their love, attention, even their inheritance—the house, the summer cottage, the car. When I tried to talk to Mum about my struggles, she coldly replied, “You chose this life, Veronica. Sort it out yourself.” Their indifference cuts like a knife. I’m not asking for much, but don’t my sons deserve even a scrap of their grandmother’s affection?
My ex-husband, Paul, walked out when Daniel was just born. He slammed the door and claimed the boys weren’t his. It wasn’t just betrayal—he tried to erase us from his life. I fought for child support in court, endured the humiliating paternity test that proved they were his. The judge ordered him to pay, but he ignores it. Every month, I check my account, hoping for a miracle, but it’s empty. His irresponsibility left us penniless, and I’m barely scraping by, working myself ragged.
My ex-mother-in-law, Linda, could have been my support, but she won’t even look our way. When I asked her to watch the boys, she brushed me off: “I raised my own. Had enough of that. Not my problem.” Her words stung. How can her own grandchildren, who share her son’s blood, mean nothing to her? I’ve tried leaning on neighbours and colleagues, but they all have their own lives. They offer sympathy, but sympathy won’t feed my children or give me an hour’s rest.
I feel trapped. Life buzzes around me—people laugh, gather with their families—while I’m on my own. My boys are growing, and I fear they’ll sense this emptiness. Oliver already asks, “Mum, why don’t we have a grandma like everyone else?” What can I say? My heart shatters wondering: why has life been so unfair? Is it the people who’ve abandoned me? Or is it me—unable to ask for help, to make them see my pain? I don’t know.
Every night, I fall asleep thinking tomorrow might be better, but it’s the same struggle. I want to be strong for Oliver and Daniel, but my strength is fading. My illness nags at me, but I can’t afford weakness—my boys rely on me alone. I dream of the day someone will say, “Veronica, I’ll help.” But for now, I walk this path alone, clutching my sons’ tiny hands. Don’t I deserve support? How do I escape this loneliness that chokes me every day?