As the years have passed, I’ve come to realize that I never want to marry again.
Over time, I recognized that I had always been the perfect mother—caring, gentle, without bad habits, the one my children could rely on at any moment. I have three of them: two sons and a daughter, whom I raised with love and dedication. My youngest, Alex, was born when I was 37, and there’s quite an age gap between him and his older siblings. I was always their rock, their steadfast support, but now, looking back, I see how little I saved for myself.
My life was a whirlwind of responsibilities. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family, but spent little on myself. Everything went into the children, the house, creating a cozy home for them. I never traveled, never took a break, never treated myself—even though I deeply wanted to! Before I got married, I was different: carefree, light-hearted, often traveling to the sea or the mountains whenever the mood struck. And then I married Nick. He wasn’t a bad person—he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and took care of the home in his own way. But his messiness drove me nuts; his things were everywhere, chaos became part of our lives. By the time I was 55, with the children grown and gone, I suddenly looked at myself and thought: I can’t do this anymore.
We lived in a spacious home outside Manchester, but it hadn’t felt like mine in a long time. Nick had developed an expensive passion for hunting. Three pedigree hounds, an arsenal of weapons, sheds cluttered with gear—it all consumed his time and money. And me? I couldn’t even get a cat—he couldn’t stand them. So many of the things I liked only irritated him. My dreams, my small joys suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but kept working—a habit of keeping everything under control wouldn’t let go. Then, as a retiree, I made a decision. I proposed divorce to Nick, with a condition: I’d leave him the three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, the furniture, his dogs, and guns, and in return, I wanted just a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then, our connection was hanging by a thread. The children had moved away, the house was empty, and I was tired of living for him, losing myself in his life, receiving nothing in return.
Two years ago in November, I moved into my new apartment in the heart of the city. With just one worn-out bag in hand, into bare walls with no traces of the past. And you know, I was happy—moved to tears, with a thrill in my chest! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started settling in bit by bit: changed the pipes, got new windows, updated the doors. Every nail hammered into that apartment was a little victory of mine.
We divorced officially, and since then my life has burst into color. Now every year I travel to the English seaside, I listen to live music at concerts, I embark on journeys I dreamed of when I was young. I now have two fluffy cats—pedigreed, proud, my faithful companions. My relationship with my children is wonderful: they’re happy for me, they call, they visit. And now, at nearly 62, I feel so light, so at peace, that I’m not afraid to say: these are the happiest years of my life. I don’t want to change anything; I don’t want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I’ve given too much—years, energy, dreams—to tie myself down again to bonds that could become chains. Soon I’ll turn 62, and I only pray for one thing: not to fade away tomorrow, but to enjoy this new, personal world for many more years. This is my story—the story of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t give away this happiness to anyone.
