I am 56, and I have never been married. No, I am not an old maid. I have a wonderful daughter—married, fluent in five languages, working for a major IT firm. But a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, sadly, never knew her father. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.
It was a youthful fling. He came to England from Italy as an exchange student, studying our language. We met by chance at some event at my university—the School of Modern Languages. Back then, young people struck up friendships easily, especially students. 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 country—from Venice down to Sicily.
I won’t dwell on our romance. Truth be told, there wasn’t much of one. We wandered London together, me showing him my city, his arm draped lightly around my waist. It all happened quickly, carelessly, without much thought. By the time I realised I was pregnant, my dark-haired Leo from Terracina was long gone, back to his own country.
My mother was my rock. She said we had no right to take a life—it was given, not ours to refuse. And my father? He was over the moon, even though I’d only just turned twenty-one.
I was blessed with my parents, and my daughter with her grandparents. They’re gone now, but their memory stays with us.
But enough of the past. Now, the present. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I often read others’ stories. Many share similar situations, and sometimes, there’s a thought that lingers.
Six months ago, I met a man. Amusingly, our first encounter was a row. We were queuing at the till in a tiny shop near my flat—he was behind me. As I paid, I remembered I’d forgotten the coffee. It was right there, just an arm’s reach away, but still—a nuisance. The man in round spectacles behind me flew into such a rage I thought he might strike me.
I didn’t engage. Paid silently and left. Then—footsteps, quick behind me. I turned, and there he was, the rude stranger, only now with a sheepish grin and a bar of chocolate in hand.
He apologised—said work had worn him ragged, his nerves in tatters. I smiled. And that’s how it began.
Turns out, we’re practically neighbours. Divorced, two grown children, owns his flat. Works at one of London’s museums. Clever, refined, a good man. After half a year, he proposed—asked to move in together.
I agreed. Why? Maybe to close some old chapter, to finally be a wife. Or perhaps loneliness had worn me down. My daughter’s grown, with her own life—though I’ve yet to see a grandchild. Or maybe I needed to prove something to myself. Does it matter now?
But here’s the trouble. The moment the marriage notice was lodged at the register office, and he moved in, something shifted.
Understand—I’ve lived alone for years. My habits are set, and I find I don’t wish to change them.
He snores. Loudly. I sleep poorly as it is—with him, sleep is impossible. I need silence, absolute, to rest. He leaves shoes strewn about, forgets to switch off lights, pads around the house like a dishevelled tramp—though for work, he polishes up like a model off the pages of a catalogue.
I know how it sounds—fussy. But I’ve lived by my own rules. Mornings are for quiet coffee, reading the news on my tablet. Now, I must read aloud, discuss, debate. It’s as though my solitude is being stolen.
Perhaps I’ll grow accustomed—to the socks on the floor, the endless lectures. Or perhaps not.
