I’m 38 and a stay-at-home parent, and yeah I know, I know. It sounds like a dream to some people, always has. Like I won the lottery or something, but honestly, it just feels… flatlining. Like you’re on a treadmill and the scenery never changes, just the kids getting taller. We moved here, to this pretty-ish town with the good schools, when Liam was starting reception (God, that feels like a lifetime ago now) and all the other mums were so welcoming, you know? Like, instant besties. We’d do coffee runs after drop-off, then hit the park, then sometimes a cheeky glass of rosé once the littles were napping. Proper sisterhood stuff, felt like I finally found my people after years of feeling like an outsider in every office job I ever had. Always felt a bit out of place, like I was trying to speak a different language than everyone else. This was easy. We had all these big plans, us lot. We’d get the kids into the same secondary school, holiday together, complain about our husbands and share tips on getting dried paint out of EVERYTHING. Maria, with her three, she was always cracking me up, telling me about the time her little one tried to flush her phone down the loo. Gemma, her oldest is a year older than Liam, she was the one who got me into those mum-and-baby yoga classes, even though I mostly just lay there praying I wouldn’t fart. There was a real bond there, I thought. Like a proper crew. We went through the nappy explosions and the terrible twos and the sleep regressions together. Shared the childcare costs for the odd night out, celebrated birthdays. It was… real. But then the kids started spreading out, you know? Liam got into the grammar (THANK GOD, honestly, the relief was immense, we worked so hard for that) but Gemma’s boy didn't quite make the cut, went to the comprehensive. And Maria’s twins, they’re still younger, doing their thing at the local primary. Suddenly the morning drop-offs weren't syncing up. The coffee dates got shorter, then they became once a week, then "we should really catch up soon!" texts that never turned into anything. It’s not like there was a big fight or anything, no drama, just… everyone got busy with their own thing. Their own schools, their own new mums. It felt like watching sand slip through your fingers, but you don't even have the energy to cup your hands to catch it. Like, oh. Okay. Now it's just me. Liam’s off at school, Lily's at primary. I walk the dog, do the housework, stare at the same four walls. Sometimes I see Gemma in Tesco, we wave, maybe exchange a quick, "How are you doing?" and then it's back to dodging the trolleys. Maria, I haven't seen her in ages. I keep thinking maybe I should reach out, plan something, but what? It just feels… forced now. Like the natural connection got snipped. And I wonder, was it always just about the kids? Was that all we had in common? Because if it was, then what was I doing for all those years? Pouring my heart out, thinking these were my ride-or-dies, my people, only for it to evaporate like morning dew. It’s stupid, right? To be almost 40 and feeling like I’m back in high school trying to find a lunch table. But it's more than that. It’s the feeling of being completely adrift. Like I dedicated all these years to raising these brilliant kids, and it’s meant to be fulfilling, and it is, obviously, but now they don't need me in the same way. And I don’t have anything else. No career to go back to, not really. My old skills are probably useless now. And no friends. Just… this house. This quiet, too-big house, full of ghosts of playdates and shared laughter that feels like it belongs to someone else’s life now. And I just keep thinking, what next? What do I do now? It’s not a question I have an answer for, and that’s the bit that truly stings.