The Old Maid's Diary: 100 Days of Love and Loss

Jan. 12, 2023 They call me an old maid. As if my life was empty. As if I have never loved. As if I have spent all these years simply waiting for something that never came. People have a way of simplifying things they do not understand. To them, I am just that woman at the edge of the street—the quiet one who lives alone in a small house, who rarely speaks, who watches the world pass by from the same spot every day. The one who never married. The one who was never chosen. Old maid. I have heard it so many times that it no longer stings the way it used to. The words have softened over the years, like footsteps fading into the distance. They are still there… but they no longer hurt as loudly. Or maybe I just learned how to carry them. Today, I turned sixty-eight. The morning began like any other. I woke before the sun fully rose, my body already used to the quiet rhythm of solitude. The air was cool, slipping gently through the small cracks of the window, carrying with it the faint scent of grass and earth. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed—late, as always. I boiled water. Prepared my coffee. One cup. Always one. I held the warm mug between my hands and sat by the window, watching the sky slowly change colors—soft blues turning into gold. It was peaceful. It always is. But peace… is not the same as fullness. I was halfway through my coffee when I heard voices outside. Laughter. Children. Before I could even stand, the door opened. “Ate!” Clara’s voice filled the house, followed by the hurried footsteps of small feet running across the floor. “Manay Ella!” the children called out, their voices bright and careless, as if the world had never taught them what loneliness felt like. I turned just in time to see them rushing toward me—smiling, laughing, alive. And just like that… My quiet house breathed again. Clara walked in behind them, carrying a box carefully in her hands. She looked older now, of course. We both were. But there was still something in her eyes that reminded me of the little girl who used to follow me everywhere. “Happy birthday, ate,” she said, smiling. I returned it. “Thank you.” They placed the box on the table and opened it. Cake. Bright. Soft. Sweet. Too sweet for me, if I’m being honest. But I didn’t say that. The children gathered around, already excited. “Blow the candle, Manay!” I laughed softly. “There’s only one.” “Because you’re number one!” one of them said proudly. I shook my head, amused. They sang for me. Their voices were uneven, some too loud, some too shy—but together, it was perfect. The kind of imperfect that feels real. I closed my eyes for a brief moment before blowing out the candle. And in that second… I made no wish. Not because I didn’t have any. But because I had learned— Not everything we wish for is meant to stay. We ate together. Talked. Laughed. The house, once quiet, was suddenly filled with noise—chairs moving, plates clinking, children running in and out, their laughter echoing through walls that had long grown used to silence. For a moment… I forgot. Forgot that I lived alone. Forgot the stillness that usually wrapped around me. Forgot the years that had passed. “Come live with us instead,” Clara said at one point, her voice softer now, more careful. I looked at her. There was no pity in her eyes. Only concern. Only love. I smiled. “I’m alright here,” I said gently. She didn’t argue. She never does. Because deep down, I think she understands— This house is not just a place. It is everything I have left. Hours passed without me noticing. And just like that… It was time for them to go. “Bye, Manay! We’ll come back!” the children said, waving as they stepped out. “I’ll be waiting,” I replied. Clara lingered for a moment by the door. “Take care, ate.” “I always do.” She gave me one last look—like she wanted to say something more—but instead, she simply nodded and left. The door closed. And just like that… The silence returned. I stood there for a while, listening. As if the echoes of their laughter were still lingering in the air. But slowly… Even that faded. I walked back to my chair by the window. The same chair. The same place. I sat down and looked outside. Nothing had changed. The same road. The same trees. The same quiet afternoon. But inside the house— Everything felt different again. Empty. Not the kind of empty that screams. But the kind that settles. The kind that stays. I picked up my now cold cup of coffee and took a small sip. Bitter. I let out a quiet breath. “They think I lived a lonely life,” I murmured to myself. I glanced at the table, where the remains of the cake sat untouched. At the chairs that had only recently been filled. At the door that had just closed. “They think I was never chosen…” A faint smile touched my lips. If only they knew. If only they knew— That once… I was everything to someone. And he was everything to me. I leaned back in my chair, eyes drifting toward the fading light outside. Maybe… It’s time I tell this story. Not for them. Not for anyone. But for the truth that has lived quietly inside me all these years. Because I was not unloved. I was not forgotten. I simply chose a different ending. And for the next hundred days… I will remember.