As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that I never want to marry again.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that I’ve been the perfect mother my whole life—caring, gentle, with no bad habits, always there for my children whenever they needed me. I have three of them: two sons and a daughter, whom I raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest, Alex, at 37, and there’s a significant age gap between him and the older ones. I was always their rock, their solid foundation, but now, looking back, I see how little I left for myself.
My life has been consumed by work, tirelessly supporting the family while spending very little on myself. Everything went towards the kids, our home, creating a cozy space for them. I never traveled, took vacations, or indulged myself—even though I longed to! Before marriage, I was different: free-spirited, often taking trips to the seaside or mountains, wherever my heart desired. Then I married Nicholas. He wasn’t a bad person—he didn’t drink, smoke, and took care of the house as best he could. But his messiness drove me insane: things were always scattered about, and chaos became a part of our lives. When I turned 55, and the kids had grown up and left, I suddenly looked at myself and realized I couldn’t go on like this.
We lived in a spacious house near Birmingham, but it had long since stopped feeling like mine. Nicholas developed an expensive hobby—hunting. Three pedigree hounds, a collection of firearms, sheds filled with gear—it all consumed his time and money. As for me? I couldn’t even get a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Many things I loved only irritated him, and my dreams and little joys suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but continued working—habit wouldn’t let me relinquish control. Then as a pensioner, I made up my mind. I suggested to Nicholas that we get a divorce with one condition: I leave him with our three-bedroom house, garage, car, furniture, his dogs, and guns, and in return, I ask only for a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without dispute—by then, our connection had worn thin. The children had left, the house was empty, and I was exhausted from living for him, losing myself in his life without getting anything in return.
In November two years ago, I moved into my new flat in the city center. With just one worn-out suitcase in hand, into bare walls, with no trace of the past. And you know, I was happy—tearfully, tremblingly happy! For the first time in decades, I breathed freely. I started setting up little by little: replaced pipes, installed new windows, updated doors. Every nail hammered into that flat was my little victory.
We officially divorced, and since then, my life has been full of color. Now, every year, I travel to the coast, listen to live music at concerts, and embark on the journeys I dreamed of in my youth. I now have two fluffy cats—pedigreed, proud, loyal companions. My relationship with the children is wonderful: they are happy for me, call, and 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 a thing; I don’t want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I’ve given up too much—years, energy, dreams—to tie myself again in bonds that may become chains. Soon I’ll turn 62, and I pray for just one thing: not to fade tomorrow, but to enjoy this new world of mine 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.
