At 62, I found myself tangled in another love story—or so I thought. He was 49, whispered sweet words while I cooked and scrubbed his shirts clean… until I finally showed him the door.
Years had passed since my brutal divorce. Time stretched on, but the scars never quite faded.
My first husband wasn’t just a failure—he was a parasite, draining my strength, my savings, my will to live. He never worked, just drank and vanished into the night, only to slink back and steal from our home like a scavenger. And I endured it. For my son, Oliver. Only for him.
When the boy turned twelve, he looked me in the eye and said, *”Mum, why do you put up with him? Just throw him out.”*
That was the jolt I needed. The truth struck like lightning. That same evening, I bundled my husband’s things and dumped them on the doorstep. No pity. Only relief. Air rushed back into my lungs, sweet and free. I couldn’t describe the joy of breathing without fear.
Later came other men. A few. Some sent messages, others invited me to the cinema. But I never let myself fall. Couldn’t. Fear coiled too tight—fear of becoming a maid again instead of a woman.
The last four years were the loneliest. Oliver moved to Canada, settled there for good, begged me to join him. But I couldn’t. Too late to relearn life in a foreign land. I’d spent forty years here, roots tangled in memories—pain and joy both carved into these streets.
Then came the pandemic. Silence. No visitors, no embraces. Just four walls and the tick of the clock.
A friend nudged me, *”Find someone, even just for company. You’re not made of stone!”*
I sighed. *”Men my age? Grey, bent, pitiful creatures. They don’t want a woman—they want a nurse. And I refuse to spoon-feed affection.”*
*”Then look younger! You’re still striking, honestly.”*
I waved her off. But the seed had been planted.
Then—something strange. I saw *him*.
Every evening, he walked his spaniel in the park near my flat. Tall, lean, always in a black jacket. His name was James. Forty-nine. Divorced—ex-wife in Spain, grown daughter in London.
We talked. Then talked more. Coffee followed. Then roses. Every day. I don’t recall when he started staying over, or when he simply… *lived* there.
Neighbours gasped. *”Him? With you, Margaret? You’ve bewitched him!”*
Of course it flattered me. I cooked, ironed his shirts, greeted him with a smile at the door. For the first time in ages, I remembered what it felt like to be *seen.*
Until one day, he said, *”You ought to move more. You could walk Monty for me.”*
I blinked. *”Why not go together?”*
*”Well… best not parade ourselves too much. People talk.”*
A sharp thought pierced me—*he’s ashamed.* Of my age, my wrinkles, the years etched onto me.
I looked around. He never lifted a finger—not even to toss his socks in the laundry. And me? Cooking, dusting, scrubbing. A servant. Not loved. Not a woman. Just *service.*
Steeling myself, I said, *”James, things ought to be equal here. Iron your own shirts. Walk your own dog.”*
He smirked. *”If you wanted a younger man, you’ve got to keep up. Please me. Pamper me. Or what’s the point?”*
I stared at him like a stranger. Then simply said, *”You’ve half an hour to pack.”*
*”What?! My daughter and her bloke were meant to stay here—are you mad?”*
*”Stay with her, then. Good luck.”*
Out he went. No shouting, no scene. Just the click of the lock. Then I slumped onto the sofa and wept.
Yes, it ached. Humiliation coiled thick in my chest. Loneliness echoed. But I wasn’t broken. I’d done right. Because if a man only takes—never gives—that’s not love. It’s *theft.*
I’m 62. Wrinkles line my skin, weariness weighs my steps. But my soul still burns, hungry for warmth. I still believe love exists—not a leech, but a companion. Someone who’ll stand beside me, not climb atop me.
Let him be no younger, no grander, no better. Just *there.* Honest. Warm. Respectful.
Because a woman—even at 62—deserves to stand unbroken.
