**Diary Entry – 10th October**
I’m 62; he was 49. He claimed to love me, but all I did was cook and clean… until I finally kicked him out.
Years ago, I went through a messy divorce. Time passed, but the scars healed slowly. My first husband wasn’t just a loser—he was a leech, draining my energy, my money, and my will to live. He never held a job, drank constantly, vanished at night, and even stole from the house like a scavenger. I endured it. All for my son, Gabriel. Only for him.
When he turned twelve, Gabriel looked me in the eye and said, *”Mum, why are you putting up with this? Just kick him out.”* It hit me like lightning. That same evening, I threw my husband out—no pity, just relief. Freedom. The sheer joy of breathing without fear or guilt was indescribable.
After came a string of men. Some messaged, some asked me to the cinema. But I never fell for any. Couldn’t. Too afraid. Afraid of being trapped again—turned into a maid instead of a woman.
The last four years were the loneliest. My son moved to Canada, found work, and stayed for good. He begged me to join him, but how could I? Too late to start over in a foreign land. I’ve lived here forty years—my memories, my roots, my joy and pain are all here.
Then came the pandemic. No visitors, no hugs. Just silence and four walls.
A mate once said, *”Find someone—just to talk, to laugh with. You’re not made of stone!”*
I scoffed. *”Look at men my age—grey, bent, pitiful. They don’t want a woman; they want a nurse. But I want to be loved, not useful.”*
*”Then go younger! You look fantastic, honestly.”*
I brushed it off—but the idea stuck.
Then, one day, I saw *him*. Tall, fit, always in a black jacket, walking his Labrador in the park. His name was Edward. Forty-nine, divorced—wife moved to Spain, grown-up daughter.
We talked. Then again. Then coffee. Then flowers. Every day. Soon, he was staying over. Eventually, living with me.
The neighbours gushed. *”A man like *that* with you, Margaret? You’re a sorceress!”*
It felt good, of course. I cooked, ironed his shirts, greeted him with a smile. Felt like a woman again.
Until he said, *”You could use more exercise. Why not walk my dog?”*
I frowned. *”Why don’t we go together?”*
*”Well… best not be seen together too often. People gossip.”*
That’s when it hit me. He was *ashamed*. Of my age, my wrinkles, my silver hair.
I looked around. He’d never lifted a finger—not even to toss his socks in the wash. Me? Cooking, cleaning, ironing… A servant. Not loved. Not a woman. Just *service*.
I finally said, *”Edward, chores should be equal. Iron your own things. Walk your own dog.”*
He smirked. *”If you wanted a younger man, you’d better keep up. Please me. Serve me. Or what’s the point?”*
I stared at a stranger. Then: *”You’ve got half an hour to pack.”*
*”What? My daughter and her bloke were staying here next week!”*
*”Then stay with *her*. Good luck.”*
I shut the door. No shouting, no drama. Sat down and wept.
It hurt. Humiliating. Lonely. But not broken. I’d done right. A man who only takes, never gives? That’s not love. That’s parasitism.
I’m 62. Wrinkled. Tired. But my soul still burns—still wants warmth. I still believe love’s possible. That somewhere, a man will choose *me*, not just *use* me.
He doesn’t need to be younger, taller, better. Just *there*. Honest. Kind. Respectful.
Because a woman—even at 62—has every right to stand unbroken.
**Lesson learned: Never trade dignity for company.**
