I’m fifty-six, and I’ve never been married. No, I’m not some spinster. I have a wonderful daughter—married, fluent in five languages, working for a top tech firm. But a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, sadly, never met her biological father. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.
It was a youthful fling. He’d come to Britain from Italy on a student exchange, studying English. We met by chance at some event at my university, where I was studying languages. Back then, young people struck up friendships easily, especially students. Or at least, that’s how it seems now.
It warmed my heart that he was Italian. To this day, despite everything, I adore Italy. My daughter and I have travelled the length of the boot—from London to Cornwall and everywhere in between.
I won’t dwell on our brief romance. Truth be told, there wasn’t much of one. We spent days wandering through Cambridge, me showing him my hometown, his arm loosely around my waist. Then, just like that, it happened—quick, spontaneous, ordinary. By the time I realized I was pregnant, my dark-eyed Leo from Naples was long gone.
My mother was my rock. She said we had no right to take a life, not when it was given from above. My father? Over the moon, even though I was barely twenty-one.
I was lucky with my parents, and my daughter was lucky with her grandparents. They’ve passed now, but their memory stays with us.
But enough of the past. Now, the present. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but I often read others’ stories. Many share similar experiences, and sometimes there’s a thought that sticks with me.
Six months ago, I met a man. Funnily enough, it began with a row. We were queuing at the till—him behind me. As I paid for my groceries, I realized I’d forgotten the coffee. The shop’s tiny, barely a step to grab it, but still, it takes a moment. The man in round glasses scowled so fiercely I thought he might hit me.
I didn’t engage. Paid silently, left. Then I heard quick footsteps behind me. Turned around—there he was, that rude stranger, but now grinning, holding out a bar of chocolate.
He stopped me, apologizing profusely. Said work had worn him thin, nerves in tatters. I smiled. And so we met.
Turns out, he lives just round the corner. Divorced, two grown children, owns his flat. Works at one of the city’s museums. Clever, refined—a good man. After six months, he proposed, asked me to move in together.
I agreed. Don’t know why. Maybe to finally say I’d been a wife. Or perhaps the loneliness gnawed at me. My daughter’s grown, her own life now, though grandchildren remain elusive. Or maybe I needed to prove something to myself. Doesn’t matter now.
But here’s the trouble. The moment our marriage notice went in, and he moved in, something felt off.
Understand—I’ve lived alone for years. My habits are set, and I’ve no desire to change them.
He snores. Loudly. I already sleep poorly—with him, it’s hopeless. I need tomb-quiet to rest. He leaves shoes strewn about, never turns off lights, lounges in tattered jumpers at home though he dresses sharp for work.
I know how fussy it sounds. But my routines are sacred. Mornings, I need silence with my coffee, scrolling the news. Now, I read headlines aloud, discuss them. It’s like my privacy’s been stolen.
Perhaps I’ll adjust. To the socks on the floor, the endless lectures. Or perhaps not.
