I don’t want to get married—I don’t need extra complications at this stage of life.
I’m 56 years old and have been living for the past two years with a man I love, someone who makes me feel at ease. However, he keeps raising the same question: “Why don’t we just get married?” But the more he asks, the more I realize that not only do I not want to, I’m scared. At our age, after weathering life’s storms, weddings no longer seem like magical events. We long for stability, warmth, and simplicity. Marriage brings duties, legalities, property rights, the disapproval of grown children, and endless “what ifs.” I’ve had enough of those “what ifs.”
My partner’s name is Alex. He’s five years older than me. We met by chance at a wellness retreat where I went to recuperate after a severe illness. Initially, everything was easy: walks, late-night conversations, trips to nearby towns, and a shared sense of humor. Then real life began. He moved into my three-bedroom flat that I inherited from my parents. My son is grown, working in London. My daughter is a student and lives with me. Alex is also divorced, with two daughters from his first marriage; they live with their mother and are still in school.
We share life, household tasks, and weekend getaways, but we both maintain financial independence. He has his own pension, his own car. I have my flat, a small garden in the countryside, savings, and a car I bought with my own money. Alex supports his daughters, sometimes more than necessary. I support my daughter too but encourage her to be independent.
Everything between us is settled. We don’t argue or have disputes. We both have our personal space. But he still wants that marriage certificate. And I do not.
It’s not that I don’t love him. But I’ve been married before. It ended badly—with shouting, property disputes, court battles, and humiliation. My ex-husband tried to take the flat I’d saved for over many years, playing the victim. It took me years to rebuild my trust.
Now, Alex asks again: “Why don’t you want to be my wife?” He doesn’t get it, and I can’t explain without hurting him.
I don’t want my home, my work, my life to become a potential battleground should we ever clash. We’re not youngsters. There won’t be any shared children or a new beginning. Everything is already built. Why dismantle it?
And then there’s my kids. They’ve never said anything against Alex, but I notice my daughter keeps her distance despite her politeness. My son doesn’t comment at all. I’m sure the minute we marry, the questions will start. “Is he eyeing the flat?” “Is Mum planning to leave something to him?” Life’s hard enough for them. I’d like to sell the flat someday, buy a cozy one-bedroom place, and give them the rest. It would help them with a mortgage or decent rental. Marrying Alex would complicate things. It would become “jointly acquired.”
I don’t want more paperwork or potential court battles if things go wrong. I simply want to live with the one I love, confident he’s not there for a legal address, a flat, or fear of loneliness.
Recently, Alex has become distant. He retreats into silence, frequently accusing me of not loving him. He’s grown sensitive, sarcastic. Claims everything is “calculated.” It hurts because I’m with him out of love and a desire to be near. I just don’t want to get married.
We’re not starry-eyed twenty-somethings who believe marriage will change everything. It won’t. It would only complicate matters. At our age, love isn’t about weddings, rings, or shared surnames. It’s the hand offered in tough times, the silent evenings spent in front of the telly knowing he’s there, making you feel secure.
But for some reason, Alex believes I’m not serious without a marriage certificate. And I find myself wondering if real maturity means loving without contracts and obligations.
I don’t know how our story will end. Perhaps he’ll leave, feeling hurt. Or maybe he’ll understand. But I’m not giving up my stance. I’ve experienced too much to lose myself in another relationship. I want peace, respect, and inner calm. Not disputes over property and a formal “husband.”
I don’t need a status—I need a person. And if he doesn’t understand that, perhaps he’s not the person I was waiting for.
