**Diary Entry**
I’m 62, he was 49—he claimed to love me, while I cooked and cleaned… until I kicked him out.
Years ago, I survived a brutal divorce, and though time moved on, the scars healed slowly. My first husband wasn’t just a failure—he was a leech, draining my energy, my money, my will to live. He didn’t work, drank himself senseless, vanished at night, then crept back to steal from our home like a scavenger. And I endured it. For my son. For Gabriel. Only for him.
When he turned twelve, Gabriel looked me in the eye and said, *”Mum, why do you put up with this? Just kick him out.”* And it struck me like lightning. Clarity. That same evening, I shoved my husband out the door. No pity. Just relief. Freedom. I can’t describe the joy of breathing without fear or guilt.
After came the men. A few. Some messaged, some took me to the cinema. But I never fell—*couldn’t* fall. Fear. Fear of slipping back into servitude. Of becoming a maid instead of a woman.
The last four years were especially lonely. Gabriel moved to Canada, found work, then settled for good. He begged me to join him, but I couldn’t. It’s too late to start over in a foreign place. I’ve lived here forty years—roots, memories, joy, and pain all tangled in this soil.
Then the pandemic hit. Silence. No visitors, no embraces. Just walls.
A friend once said, *”Find someone. Just to talk, to laugh… you’re not made of stone!”*
I replied, *”Look at men my age—grey, bent, pitiful. They don’t want a woman. They want a nurse. And I refuse to be that.”*
*”Then go younger! You look amazing, honestly.”*
I brushed it off. But the seed was planted.
Then came the oddest twist. I saw *him*.
Every morning, he walked his dog in the park near my flat. Tall, trim, always in a black jacket. His name was Oliver. Forty-nine. Divorced—wife fled to Spain, grown daughter left behind.
We chatted. Then met for coffee. Then flowers. Every day. I don’t recall when he started staying over, then just… *living* there.
The neighbours gawked. *”What a catch! Handsome, and with *you*, Margaret? You’ve got magic!”*
It felt nice. Of course it did. I cooked for him, ironed his shirts, greeted him at the door smiling. I remembered what it was to feel like a woman.
Then one day, he said, *”You’d do well to move more. Maybe walk my dog?”*
I frowned. *”Why not go together?”*
*”Well… best not be seen too much. People talk.”*
And it hit me—he’s *ashamed*. Of my age, my wrinkles, whatever.
I looked around. He did *nothing*. Didn’t even toss his socks in the laundry. And me? Cooking, scrubbing, ironing… a *maid*. Not adored. Not a woman. *Service*.
I steeled myself. *”Oliver, chores should be shared. Iron your own clothes. Walk your own dog.”*
He smirked. *”If you want a younger man, act like it. Please me. Keep up. Or what’s the point?”*
I stared at a stranger. Then said, *”You’ve half an hour to pack.”*
*”What?! My daughter’s boyfriend was coming to stay—you’re joking!”*
*”Stay with her. Good luck.”*
I shut the door behind him. No shouting. No scene. Then sat and wept.
Yes, it hurt. Humiliating. Lonely. But not broken. I knew it was right. If a man only takes, never gives—that’s not love. That’s parasitism.
I’m 62. Wrinkled. Tired. But my soul still breathes. Still craves warmth. And I *still* believe love exists. That somewhere, someone will want *me*—not just use me.
He doesn’t need to be younger, taller, better. Just *there*. Honest. Kind. Respectful.
Because a woman—even at 62—has the right to stand unbroken.
