Waiting for a Message That Never Comes: A Mother’s Fear After Divorce

‘Mum, why don’t you ever go out with anyone?’

The question landed between us like a dropped shopping bag, apples rolling across the pavement. I stopped dead outside the Co-op, my hands still clutching the carrier. Jamie’s voice was small but insistent, his gaze fixed on me with that unnerving teenage seriousness he’d only just started to wear. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The wind whipped my hair across my face and I blinked hard, trying to buy myself a second.

‘What do you mean?’ I managed, though my voice sounded thin, even to me.

He shrugged, scuffing his trainers against the kerb. ‘Just… you know. Dad’s got Sarah now. You’re always on your own. Don’t you get lonely?’

Lonely. The word echoed in my chest. I wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead, I forced a smile and nudged him towards home. ‘Come on, let’s get these ice creams in the freezer before they melt.’

But the question clung to me all the way back to our little terraced house in Stockport. It followed me as I unpacked groceries and listened to Jamie clatter up the stairs to his room, already lost in some online world with his mates. It haunted me as I stood at the sink, staring at my own reflection in the window, the late afternoon sun catching the silver in my hair.

I hadn’t been on a date since Mark left. Not really. There’d been that one disastrous coffee with a bloke from work—Paul, or maybe Peter—who spent the whole time talking about his ex-wife’s Labradoodle and never once asked about me. There’d been a few awkward attempts at online dating, endless swiping and typing, waiting for a message that might never come. The silence after sending a hopeful ‘Hi’ was worse than any argument I’d had with Mark.

I couldn’t tell Jamie that. Couldn’t explain how the thought of putting myself out there again made my stomach twist with dread. How every time my phone buzzed, I half-hoped it was someone new, and half-feared it would be nothing at all.

That evening, Mum rang. She always called on Thursdays, as if she had it marked on her calendar: ‘Remind Emma she’s not getting any younger.’

‘You should try those apps again,’ she said after we’d discussed Jamie’s schoolwork and her neighbour’s new garden gnome. ‘It’s not good for you, being alone all the time.’

‘I’m not alone,’ I protested. ‘I’ve got Jamie.’

She tutted down the line. ‘He’ll be off to uni before you know it. You need someone for yourself.’

I wanted to scream. Instead, I mumbled something about being busy and hung up as soon as I could.

Later that night, after Jamie had gone to bed and the house was silent except for the hum of the fridge, I sat at the kitchen table and scrolled through old photos on my phone. There was one of Mark and me at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, arms around each other, grinning like idiots. Before everything went wrong—before the silences grew longer than the conversations, before he started working late and coming home smelling of someone else’s perfume.

I thought about Sarah—her perfect hair, her easy laugh—and wondered if she ever worried about messages that never came.

The next morning was Saturday. Jamie was off to football practice with Mark. He stood in the hallway, shoving his boots into his kit bag.

‘You alright, Mum?’ he asked suddenly.

I nodded too quickly. ‘Fine. Just tired.’

He hesitated, then gave me a quick hug before dashing out to his dad’s car. I watched them drive away, feeling that old ache settle in my chest—the one that always came when Jamie left for the weekend.

The house felt emptier than usual. I wandered from room to room, picking up stray socks and mugs, trying not to think about what Mark and Sarah might be doing while Jamie was there.

By lunchtime, I’d convinced myself to try again. I downloaded one of those dating apps—MatchMe or something equally naff—and set up a profile: ‘Emma, 41, loves books and walks in the Peak District.’ It felt like writing a CV for a job I wasn’t sure I wanted.

Within an hour, there were messages—some sweet, some crude, most forgettable. One caught my eye: Tom, 43, teacher from Didsbury. His profile picture showed him holding a mug of tea with a sheepish grin.

We chatted for days—about everything and nothing: favourite films (he loved Notting Hill; I preferred Bridget Jones), worst dates (he’d once been stood up at Nando’s), parenting woes (his daughter was fifteen and moody). It felt easy—safe.

But when he suggested meeting for coffee in town, panic gripped me.

What if he didn’t turn up? What if he did?

I stared at my phone for hours before replying: ‘Maybe another time.’

That night, Jamie came home tired but happy. He flopped onto the sofa beside me and flicked through channels until he found some old episode of Doctor Who.

‘Did you do anything nice today?’ he asked without looking at me.

I hesitated. ‘Just… tried something new.’

He grinned. ‘Good for you.’

For a moment, I saw him not as my little boy but as someone growing into himself—someone who wanted more for me than just survival.

The next week passed in a blur of work and school runs and awkward texts from Tom that I didn’t know how to answer. Mum called again; this time she didn’t mention dating.

One evening, as Jamie did his homework at the kitchen table, he looked up suddenly.

‘Mum? You know it’s okay if you want to be happy again.’

Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them. ‘I know,’ I whispered.

He smiled—awkward but sincere—and went back to his maths worksheet.

That night, I lay awake listening to the rain against the window and wondered if courage was just another word for hope—the hope that maybe next time would be different; that maybe waiting for a message wasn’t so terrifying after all.

Is it better to risk disappointment than to stay safe in loneliness? Or am I just too afraid to find out?