I was at the park today, not that I go much anymore, but my great-granddaughter, little Iris, she just loves the swings. (She’s three, and her laugh, well, it’s a tonic, truly.) We went down to the one by the old mill, the one with the big oak tree that’s probably older than this town itself, and it was quite busy, actually. Which is unusual for a Tuesday afternoon here. Usually, it’s just crickets and maybe old Mr. Henderson walking his terrier. But today, mothers, and a few fathers too, all gathered around, their little ones shrieking and tumbling. And the sun was out, a rare thing these past few weeks, so everyone seemed… vibrant. There was this young woman, she must have been in her early twenties, sitting on one of the benches – the new metal ones, not the old wooden slats I remember – and she had a stroller pushed up close. Her baby, just a tiny thing, was completely asleep, despite all the commotion. You could hear the clang of the swings, the high-pitched yelps, the constant thud-thud of children running, and that baby was just out cold. A miracle, really, when you think about it. Most newborns, they startle at a feather dropping. But the young mother, she just sat there, very still. She was looking at the other parents, you know, the ones who were gathered in a loose circle, laughing at some shared joke about teething or sleepless nights. They were all chattering away, their voices a low hum under the playground din, and she just watched them. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she didn’t touch her phone or anything. Just watched. I noticed it because I was watching Iris, naturally, but my peripheral vision, it caught her. And I thought, “Oh, honey.” It took me right back, you see. To when my first, Robert, was just a few months old. We lived out on the farm then, still do, but back then it was just me and Jim and the cows. And the nearest neighbor was a good mile down the road, Mrs. Gable, who was lovely but deaf as a post and didn’t have any children of her own, not that I ever knew of anyway. So when I had Robert, I was just… there. All the time. Just me and him. (And Jim, of course, but he was always out with the machinery, or tending to the livestock, never really *in* the house during the day, not for long anyway.) I remember one Tuesday, same day of the week, funny how these things repeat, I bundled Robert into the old pram. It was one of those big, deep ones, navy blue with white tires. My mother-in-law had given it to me. And I walked all the way into town, which, for us, was a proper trek. Not like now, with the paved roads. It was a dirt track then, and if it had rained, it was a muddy mess. But it was a beautiful spring day, and I was just desperate for… well, for something. Connection, I suppose. Social interaction. A conversation that didn’t involve burp cloths or milk supply. I got to the park, the very same one, just much smaller then, and there were three other women there. All with their babies. All chatting, just like the ones today. And Robert was asleep, just like that young woman’s baby today. And I pushed his pram right up to the edge of their little group, trying to look casual, trying to look like I belonged. I think I even smiled. A small, tentative thing. I wanted so badly for someone to look at me, to say, “Oh, hello, new mother, come join us.” But they didn’t. They just… didn’t. Their conversation flowed around me, like water around a stone. They were talking about baby food recipes, I think, or perhaps colic. And I just stood there, holding onto the handle of Robert’s pram, feeling the sun on my face but a chill in my chest. It felt like a sort of social exclusion, an emotional partitioning. Like there was an invisible barrier, a very real, very present one, between me and them. (Even though I was standing right there!) And after about ten minutes, feeling utterly… redundant, I turned around and walked all the way back home. I cried the whole way back, a quiet, tearless sort of crying, the kind that just sits in your throat and aches. And I remember thinking, “This is what it feels like to be truly alone.” It wasn’t a dramatic, film-worthy despair. More like a slow, insidious realization of isolation. It’s a very specific kind of loneliness, isn’t it? The kind that happens when you’re surrounded by people, but still completely apart. Like you’re observing life, rather than participating in it. And seeing that young woman today, with her sleeping baby and her quiet hands, it just… it brought it all back. The exact sensation. The feeling of being on the periphery, even when you’re right there in the middle of it all. Some things, they just imprint on you, I suppose. Permanently. And even now, at my age, I still feel a little bit of that sting. It never really goes away.