I’ve been married three times, and each time, I aimed to be the perfect wife. Now, I’m scared of ending up alone in the twilight of my life.
Three times I tied my fate to marriage, pouring my heart and soul into being a model wife—caring, patient, willing to sacrifice for my loved ones. Yet, each attempt to build happiness ended in bitter disappointment, and now I’m haunted by fear: what if I face old age in emptiness and solitude?
My first husband, Mark, left me with harsh words: “I’m tired of you.” He was bored of me, our children, my care, my efforts. “You’re dull,” he said, looking at me with disdain. “All you know is how to make a Sunday roast.” Back then, I believed this was feminine happiness: to be a homemaker, a mother, a pillar for a husband. I didn’t understand how to keep him, what to do to make him stay. And then, I was left alone—with two little ones in my arms, lost and crushed.
My second husband, John, entered my life when I hoped things would be different. I tried to learn from my mistakes: to be wiser, to demand less, to forgive more. But fate hit hard once again: money was desperately scarce, we both were overworked, and then I fell ill. Not fatally, but seriously enough to need support. That’s when I saw his true colors. He didn’t shout or create scenes—he just packed up and left for someone else. A sick wife, three children—why would he carry such a burden? He disappeared from my life as quietly as a shadow in the night, leaving me to struggle alone.
My third husband, Richard, was a real trial for me. When we met in a small town near Manchester, he was broken, a lost soul without purpose. I literally pulled him from the brink: helped him get back on his feet, gave him half my salary, supported his dreams. I dragged him forward, like a tow pulling a barge against the current, without sparing myself. And yet, he did nothing for me—no kindness, not an ounce of gratitude. But I convinced myself: the man is the head of the family, and I must support him, even if it means bearing everything alone. Recently, he looked at me coldly and declared, “You’ve let yourself go. Old, unkempt.”
He’s only three years younger than me, but he sees himself as young and vibrant, while viewing me as almost a wreck, unworthy of attention. And this from a man whom I supported, fed, lifted from the ground for years! Rage engulfed me. I could no longer endure it: I stopped giving him money, and he immediately called me stingy, listed all my “failings,” as if I owed him until the end of time. His words cut like knives but opened my eyes: I don’t want to live for someone who doesn’t appreciate me anymore.
Here I stand at a crossroads, in my forties, with a broken heart and empty hands. For years, I poured my soul into these relationships, spent so much energy trying to make them better, and what do I have to show for it? Emptiness. I’m afraid to even think about the future. Who needs me now? Do people not care for old women—or am I mistaken? These thoughts gnaw at me like a cold autumn wind, and I don’t know where to find the answer. Three times I tried to build a family, three times I got burned, and now the fear of loneliness is knocking on my door ever louder. Is this really all that’s destined for me? Will I end up alone, watching life pass me by?”
