When my husband died, I thought the grief would be the hardest part. But it wasn’t. It was the moment my daughter looked me in the eye and said, “Either you work, or you’re out on the street.” That was when I truly learned what loneliness meant.
I’m Carol Simmons. Sixty-three years old, born and raised in Ohio. I was a wife for thirty-eight years. A mother to one. And now, I suppose, a widow with nowhere to go.
My husband, Greg, passed suddenly from a heart attack in early March. One minute he was making his terrible scrambled eggs on a Saturday morning, the next, he was gone—just like that. We had savings, but not much. He had been the breadwinner, working as a warehouse manager until retirement, and I was always the homemaker. It worked for us. Until it didn’t.
After the funeral, everything moved quickly. My daughter, Lisa, who had moved to Raleigh years ago, stayed behind for a week to “help sort things out.” What she really did was go through papers, make suggestions about selling the house, and ask me what I planned to do next. Her tone was businesslike, impatient.
“I can’t afford to support you, Mom,” she told me on day six. “I have two kids and a mortgage. You’ll have to get a job or figure something else out.”
I stared at her. “Lisa, I haven’t worked in almost forty years. What kind of job could I possibly do?”
She shrugged. “There’s remote work, call centers, grocery stores. Plenty of older people work. You can too.”
I was stunned. This was my daughter—the baby I raised, the girl I read to every night, who cried when I dropped her off at kindergarten. Where was the warmth? The empathy?
I didn’t argue. Maybe I should have. But I was too tired. So after she left, I sat in my cold, quiet house and stared at the kitchen chair where Greg used to sit. And I cried.
But grief couldn’t pay the bills. The mortgage was manageable for two retirees. Alone, it was a mountain I couldn’t climb. My Social Security check barely covered utilities and groceries. I had no other income, and no one to lean on.
Three weeks later, I stood in line at a local job center, feeling like I was wearing someone else’s skin. I was the oldest person there by at least twenty years. A career counselor named Troy—young enough to be my grandson—tapped on his keyboard as I sat across from him.
“Have you worked before?”
“Not since 1987.”
He paused. “Okay. Let’s see… Any computer experience?”
“I can use email. I shop online.”
He nodded, too politely. I knew what he was thinking.
Eventually, he found a lead: a part-time position as a receptionist at a small medical clinic, answering phones and scheduling appointments. The pay was just above minimum wage, but it was something.
I applied. Two days later, I had an interview. I wore my best blouse and a skirt that hadn’t seen daylight in years. The office manager, a woman in her thirties, was kind enough. Still, her smile was tight when she handed me a form.
“We’ll let you know,” she said.
They didn’t.
After five more rejections, I stopped checking email altogether. Each “We regret to inform you…” hit like another small death.
In early May, I began selling what I could—Greg’s tools, old furniture, my wedding china. Then the big decision: I listed the house. Lisa didn’t say much when I told her. Maybe she was relieved.
By June, the house was under contract. I moved into a small studio apartment on the edge of town. It smelled like mildew and cheap air freshener, but it was mine.
And then, in a moment of quiet desperation, I walked into the public library and asked the librarian if they had any classes for seniors.
She smiled. “Actually, we do. Computer skills, job readiness, even beginner Excel. Want me to sign you up?”
I nodded, heart pounding. I was terrified. But I also felt, for the first time in months, the faint flicker of something like hope.
I thought learning Excel at 63 would break me. Instead, it saved me. It was the beginning of something I never expected: a life I built for myself, not because I had to—but because I could.
The library became my sanctuary. Every Wednesday and Friday morning, I took the bus to the downtown branch, a cracked leather notebook in my tote bag and a dollar coffee in hand. The computer class was small—five of us, all over 55. Our teacher, Ms. Henry, was patient and sharp, with silver hair and a no-nonsense voice. She never talked down to us. That mattered.
We started with basics—file saving, typing, learning how to search for jobs online without ending up on a scam site. Then came Google Docs, then spreadsheets. One day, she showed us how to use Zoom.
“You never know,” she said, “some of you might end up working remotely.”
I laughed. I couldn’t imagine someone hiring an old widow with a tremble in her hand and a résumé that began in 1973. But I practiced. Every night after dinner, I sat at my folding table in the apartment and went through each exercise again.
Around the same time, I got a part-time job at a dry cleaner three blocks away. The pay was terrible, and I stood on my feet for six hours a day tagging shirts and running the register. But I was good at it. I remembered faces. I smiled. And for the first time in a long while, people smiled back.
One Saturday morning, while waiting for the bus, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Angie. She had short, curly hair and wore a faded college hoodie.
“I’ve seen you at the library,” she said. “You in the job program too?”
I nodded. She told me she used to work as a legal secretary before a layoff. “Now I’m trying to pivot into virtual assistant work. You should check it out. It’s not glamorous, but it’s flexible and all online.”
The idea stuck with me. That night, I Googled “virtual assistant jobs for seniors” and ended up on a website offering contract gigs—email sorting, calendar management, simple customer service. It sounded doable. I signed up.
By late summer, I landed a remote role with a small furniture company in Vermont. They needed someone to manage appointment bookings and monitor their support inbox. The pay? $17 an hour. I nearly cried when I saw my first paycheck.
I quit the dry cleaner in September. Not because I hated it—but because I didn’t need it anymore.
As I got more confident, I expanded. I started writing simple invoices for another client—a florist in Portland. Then I learned how to use Canva to help a third client make social media posts. I was working 25 hours a week, from my little desk by the window, with a plant I’d kept alive since Greg died.
In October, Lisa called.
“Hey Mom, just checking in.”
Her voice was cautious. She hadn’t called in weeks.
“I heard you sold the house. Are you… okay?”
I told her about the job. The classes. The clients. I didn’t gloat. But I didn’t downplay it either.
There was silence on the line. Then, finally: “I didn’t think you’d actually do it. I’m sorry for what I said.”
I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t easy. But I’m not on the street.”
A pause. “Would you want to visit for Thanksgiving? The kids miss you.”
I told her I’d think about it.
I didn’t say yes right away. I wanted to. But part of me needed to make that choice for myself, not out of guilt or longing, but from strength.
By December, I had steady income, two library volunteers I now called friends, and a used laptop I’d bought with my own money.
My life didn’t look anything like it used to. But it was mine. I had fallen, been pushed, and stood up anyway.
Not because someone saved me.
But because I saved myself.
