Yes, it hurts that NONE of my four children want me for Christmas… but this is how I’m taking my revenge: MARION MCGILVARY

The other day, I was talking to one of my son Harry’s ex-girlfriends who remains a close friend of the family. I temporarily asked him if he wanted children.

“No,” he replied. ‘I’m just sad that I won’t have anyone to look after me in my old age.’

I couldn’t resist, I laughed in his face.

‘Have you met me?’ I asked. ‘I have four children, but do you see any of them clinging to me in my senility?’

Okay, so I’m not there yet – I’m in my late 60s – but I’m in the waiting room and frankly I’m not spoiled for loving companionship. This is mostly okay; I’m free, independent, and outgoing, and I don’t need my kids to be on guard 24/7.

But I must admit I was surprised when I asked my kids what they were going to do for Christmas and realized none of their plans included me.

Harry’s ex Priya looked shocked. I kindly pointed out that he lives halfway around the world from his parents, so he doesn’t exactly set an example when it comes to staying close to his family – although he does return home to South America for Christmas every other year.

Sometimes I wonder if mine will cross the road. I am joking. In a way.

I’ll be honest. Christmas is not my favorite time of year. I love pioneering: I have a giant tree and lighted mountain village model, bunting, homemade wreaths. I decorate the house like Santa’s grotto, and I always did before I had grandchildren.

Before my four children, now grown and ranging in age from 33 to 40, were born, I’ve been putting out the same Mexican nativity scene and making my own Christmas crackers, cards, and table decorations.

But it’s actually the day I can live without him. I wish I could magically explode when gifts are opened and food is eaten.

I’ll be honest. Christmas is not my favorite time of year. I love pioneering: I have a giant tree and lighted mountain village model, bunting, homemade wreaths. But the real day is when I can live without him

The end of the climax and the dead days that follow always seem filled with gloom.

Yet everyone knows that Christmas is for family. But sometimes family is not what it should be. Apparently. Or am I the only one who has a gift like toe socks that no one wants?

For the last two years I have spent the holidays with my eldest daughter, Anne. He has two children, and nothing makes Christmas seem more magical than the joy of young children; Even if one of them has colic and screams 20 hours a day, like the little one did last year. Still, it was very enjoyable to be with them.

They’re not making Santa Claus, Anne had decided (probably after the trauma of discovering the tooth fairy didn’t exist when she was seven) that there wouldn’t be a mythical weird man dropping presents down his non-existent chimney. The Santa Claus at home is nothing more than a nice old man in a red suit printed on holiday pajamas.

This year they are all going to their other grandmother’s house in Edinburgh. So far so fair.

I mean, it’s only right that it enters a year where everyone is super sweet and no one is screaming like a banshee. I can’t complain. I am so happy that my grandchildren live nearby and that I can spend so much time with them.

I wouldn’t change, diapers, sniffles, sleepless nights and all. I actually like feeling useful. I can’t let my daughter have some rest with her mother-in-law. He deserves it.

I spoke to my younger son, Harry, who lives in London.

I said, ‘I’ll come to you for Christmas.’

Would he be very happy to be with me? After all, he and his pony — that is, the giant labradoodle — spent more than a month with me over Christmas three years ago when they were between apartments, the dog terrorizing my cats and digging a hole in my couch, and my son leaving me to walk said dog while he scrolled through a dating app in the freezing rain.

‘Well, I’m not sure there’ll be room. ‘My flatmates might be there,’ he muttered, a little slyly. I gave him what is commonly known as the ‘Mummy Look’, which reminded him of the five stitches I had received without anesthesia when he was born.

‘What?’ he snapped, his gaze failing to evoke the fear or guilt it once did. ‘I don’t know if they’re going away for Christmas!’

I offered to sleep on the couch. You’ll think I’m suggesting incest.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

So obviously such a thing will not happen. At best I would be an unwelcome guest; At worst, I’ll ruin her plans for a cozy Christmas with her new love on the go.

My younger daughter Ali lives in south London. He hasn’t been to my house in Oxford for over a year and hasn’t been home for Christmas since before lockdown. He and his wife take just a week off together before Christmas and generally go away.

Last year he invited his mother. (See what I mean? His mother). This year he told me he was going to The Ivy for Christmas dinner. Oh good, I thought and suggested I join them. His face fell. You’d think I wanted a kidney (let’s hope that never comes true).

He then started to backtrack, saying they could go to Korea instead. For example, can you move a little further away from your mother?

I get it again. Yes. Children grow up and live their own lives. That’s what you want for them. You hope that life will include you from time to time.

I still have one more child; my oldest son, Will. But it’s not even worth thinking about. She lives in Scotland and called me exactly twice last year: on Mother’s Day and on my birthday.

He is an extremely nice guy and is always kind and loving when I get him to answer his phone. Frankly, astronauts are probably more approachable than that. But he was always pretty vague and in his own world.

I offered to visit him in October. He never got back to me. There doesn’t seem to be much point in even suggesting Christmas to him. It may take up to March to respond. She also has a widowed mother-in-law and only one spare room, so naturally she gets the first salary.

Actually, I still have a partner. I’ll try that later. He looks very sad. ‘You know, I always go to my daughter!’ He speaks in a voice only dogs can hear. Yes. Except for the year he caught Covid and I had to care for him and missed Christmas with my family in case I infected them.

I said you might want to stay at home. ‘Don’t be selfish,’ he replied.

I will refrain from recording my response to this statement. But there were plenty of words that started with ‘F’ before you told him to stuff his Christmas like a turkey and sped towards a large elf.

As I told Priya, God help you if you think your children will automatically take care of you as you become weaker. Family is a bonus. It’s not a guarantee of anything. They have their own hopes, desires, and ultimately their families. And sometimes, frankly, they disappoint you when you expect them to pick up.

I always hoped that you would look after me in my old age, I joked to Priya (this saintly girl claims to love the elderly). “Oh, I’ll do it anyway,” he laughed. (I’m getting the contracts prepared as we speak.)

But I told him you can start your own family based on your friends. That’s what we all do. I have a few friends who have invited me to join them, and I know I’ll be welcome, but I don’t want to get stuck in someone else’s family celebrations.

I don’t want or need a pitiful invitation. Nor do I want to do the virtue-signalling volunteering for the Crisis at Christmas thing, as one of my divorced acquaintances did one year, leaving her a £4m house to wash homeless people’s dishes, eating stuffed goose and drinking Moet with her friends for dinner, before joining her friends for dinner, as if a day in the Marigolds had turned her into Mother Teresa.

As always, I’ll donate and be a hypocrite from the comfort of my home, thank you.

So I decided to stay at home. And I’m actually looking forward to it. As my partner says, I will be selfish. There will be no conflict. No complaints. No laundry. No juggling vegetarianism and gluten intolerance, no forgetting to be politically correct and attacking me if I make the wrong pronoun.

No disappointed looks at carefully chosen gifts that no one likes or pretending to enjoy socks. And no washing up. Instead I’ll have pâté, gherkins and a mini Christmas pudding from Waitrose. I’ll watch Selling Sunset on Netflix and sit in my pajamas all day.

I have maroon glacés and espresso martinis for breakfast, or even beans on toast if I want.

The day after Christmas, I’ll be boarding a plane to New York to stay at my friend Judith’s luxury apartment on the Upper East Side and cat-sit while she’s in Aspen, Colorado. I’ll bathe in her marble bathtub and order Chinese food that the doorman will deliver to my door.

Will be back for New Year’s, when we’ll celebrate with a gang of other New York friends I’ve accumulated over the years.

Whatever your situation, this is the answer to aging – friends. And friends are for life, not just for Christmas.