My children won’t let me remarry… A story about the struggle of being a woman caught between the past and the future
My name is Emily, and I’m 44. Not long ago, I could never have imagined finding myself in such an emotional trap. I spent my entire life with one man—my husband, the father of my children, my partner, my rock. We were together for over twenty years. Then, a year ago, he passed away suddenly. His heart gave out. He left without saying goodbye, leaving an emptiness in our home and a cold, gaping hole in my soul.
We have two children. Our son is in his third year at university—grown-up, clever, thoughtful. Our daughter just finished school this year and started at university—still so young and sensitive. I’m proud of them; they’re my whole world. But… they don’t see me as a woman. Only as a mother. Only as a widow.
Two months ago, Daniel came into my life. We met by chance at an exhibition I went to just to keep myself from going mad with loneliness. He turned out to be kind, thoughtful, a real gentleman. He didn’t push, didn’t demand—just stayed by my side. We started seeing each other, first just walks, then dinners, conversations late into the night. In his eyes, I felt like a woman again. Alive. Wanted. Loved.
And then, not long ago, he proposed. Simple, sincere: “Emily, marry me. Let’s start fresh. Together.” I burst into tears—not from sadness, but from fear. Because I knew my children wouldn’t accept it.
I gathered my courage and finally told them. I sat them down, just like when I told them I was expecting them, when I taught them to tie their laces, when I sent them off to their first day at school. Only this time, everything was different.
“I’ve met someone…” I said quietly. “His name is Daniel. We’re together. And he’s asked me to marry him.”
What followed wasn’t just shouting—it was a storm. Anger, hurt, shock.
“So you’ve already forgotten Dad?!” my daughter nearly screamed, tears in her eyes.
“You want to bring some stranger into our home?!” my son snapped. “You’re betraying him!”
They looked at me like I was a stranger. I tried to explain: I haven’t forgotten. I remember every wrinkle on his face, his voice, his laugh, the scent of his aftershave. But he’s gone, my darlings. And I can’t bring him back, no matter how much I wish I could. I’m alive. I’m breathing. And I want to be with someone who makes my heart beat again.
But they didn’t hear me.
Now I’m stuck in limbo. I don’t know what to do. If I marry Daniel—I might lose my children. They’ll stop talking to me, walk away from my life. If I refuse Daniel—I’ll be alone. Because children don’t stay forever. Today they’re here, but tomorrow, they’ll have their own families, their own lives, their own worries. And me? I’ll just be “Mum, sitting alone in the house.”
I told Daniel, “Give me time. Maybe they’ll come around.” He nodded. Held me. Said he’d wait. But I’m not sure how long his patience will last. And he has every right to his feelings. He doesn’t have my memories, my grief, my children. He just wants to be with me. And that’s no crime.
It hurts that my children don’t see me as a living, breathing person. I’ve lived honestly. I was a faithful wife, a devoted mother. I didn’t abandon anyone, didn’t betray anyone. So why, now that I just want to be happy, do I have to apologise for it?
I don’t blame my children. I understand—they’re scared. They’re afraid Daniel will replace their dad in my heart, that I’ll erase the past. But that won’t happen. He’ll always be with us. In photographs, in stories, in memory. But I—I’m here. I’m alive.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit by the window and look out at the city, where every lit pane holds a different story. Some people falling in love. Some getting married. Some having children. And some just… living. And I realise—I want to live too. Not just survive. Not just exist. But live.
I don’t know what choice I’ll make in the end. But I know this much: I’m not a criminal. I’m a woman. And I have the right to be happy.
