58-Year-Old Orphan

This essay first appeared in the 2025 Writing in Community Vol.5, the anthology from the London Writers' Salon community, a beautiful collection featuring prose and poetry from writers around the world. If you’d like to read more essays, you can find the book here. I’m on page 109, which is actually page 123 if you’re scrolling in the sidebar 😊

58-Year-Old Orphan

I’m an orphan. I didn’t grow up an orphan. I had a very traditional, two-parent upbringing. Dad worked. A lot. Mom stayed at home. Until she didn’t. Then she worked. A lot. That left me and my brother latch-key kids of the 70s. From the outside we were that picture-perfect family. There’s more of course, but that’s for another day.

What I’m thinking about today is being an orphan. It’s strange. My parents are dead.

My relationship with my father was complicated. When he died, his wife (not my mother) informed me by text that he had passed. When I called she said she didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night. To say I was pissed-off is mild. Even if we weren’t close, she could have at least picked up the phone. And the cherry on that cake is that she didn’t have a funeral. This was five years ago and I’m still annoyed that I didn’t say goodbye and have closure.

When my mother died, her husband (not my father) called me sobbing in the middle of the night. He loved her. He loves me. He would never have thought of doing anything other than calling at any hour of the day. I flew to Louisiana for the funeral. Afterwards, we drove to Hot Springs, Arkansas, to take her to the family cemetery.

I didn’t know we had a family cemetery.

Along the way, her husband gave us a tour of places meaningful to her—the elementary school they both attended, my grandmother’s house, McClard’s BBQ, and our family farm (didn’t know we had one). I said goodbye. I had closure.

It’s been 10 years since my mother passed and five since my father. And recently it’s dawned on me that I’m an orphan. Yes, I have my own family—husband, two kids. Yes, I love my own family.

Yet, I have an odd unmoored feeling I can’t figure out. I thought maybe it’s being an expat of 23-years with no U.S. home. Maybe it’s my kids leaving our Singapore home where they grew up. Maybe it’s peri-retirement. Maybe its menopause hormones. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

But, no. I really think a big part of it is that it just feels different to no longer have parents. Especially as I go through so many mid-life changes without parental models.

I don’t often think about my father. But, every once and a while I see bits of him in my own kids and it stops me cold. Can sarcasm be genetic?

With my mother, it’s different. There are days I want to tell her about a recipe I’m cooking that I know she’d love. Sometimes one of my kids is acting stupidly and I want to discuss how she dealt with my own young adult stupidity. Other times, I’m so excited about a new adventure or a kid’s accomplishment that I’m bursting to tell her.

Then it hits me. I can’t call her. And I’m overtaken again in the pit of my stomach by a wave of grief so fierce it feels like she just left.

But, it’s more than that. I feel lost. Like I’m operating without a safety net.

I’m comfortable as the safety net for my two kids. And at 58 I should be able to be my own safety net, but sometimes you just want your parents.

I Googled “adult orphan” and it’s a thing. Apparently, it’s also called “double parental bereavement” or “double parental loss.”

Adult orphan seems more descriptive and gets to the heart of being without a birth family.

There’s also something called “Orphan Syndrome” that manifests when a friend or family member leaves for a period of time. Symptoms include anxiety, panic, fear of being abandoned, fear of being alone, and low self-esteem.

Wow. Just wow.

Apparently, my feelings around empty nesting are all mixed up with my adult orphan feelings. So, stacked on top of long-term grief, I can attribute my abandonment issues and low self-esteem to both “double parental loss” and empty nesting. That’s a lot to process. Even for me—someone who enjoys emotional spiralling.

As I’m grappling with dark thoughts, loss of being someone’s daughter, and feeling alone, my WhatsApp pings. It’s my son. He’s sending me a photo of the vegan breakfast spring rolls he just made.

Then I remember, my parents may be gone. My nest may be empty. But I’m not alone.

The proof is in the spring roll.