“My kids won’t let me get married…” A story about how hard it is to be a woman caught between the past and the future.
My name’s Emily, and I’m 44. Not too long ago, I never imagined I’d end up stuck in such an emotional mess. I spent my whole life with one man—my husband, the father of my kids, my partner, my rock. We were together for over twenty years. Then, a year ago, he passed away suddenly. A heart attack. He was just gone, without a goodbye, leaving the house empty and my heart with this freezing, gaping hole.
We’ve got two kids. My son’s in his third year at uni—grown-up, sharp, sensible. My daughter just finished school this year and started university—still so young, so tender. I’m proud of them; they’re my whole world. But… they don’t see me as a woman. Just a mum. Just a widow.
Two months ago, James walked into my life. We met by chance at an exhibition I went to just to stop myself going mad with loneliness. He turned out to be kind, thoughtful, a proper gentleman. Never pushed, never demanded, just… was there. We started seeing each other—walks at first, then dinners, late-night conversations. In his eyes, I felt like a woman again. Alive. Wanted. Loved.
Then, not long ago, he proposed. Simple, heartfelt: “Emily, be my wife. Let’s start fresh. Together.” I burst into tears. Not from sadness—from fear. Because I knew my kids wouldn’t accept it.
I worked up the courage and finally told them. Sat them down at the table like I used to when I told them I was pregnant, when I taught them to tie their laces, when I sent them off to their first day of school. Only this time, it was different.
“There’s someone,” I said softly. “His name’s James. We’ve been together. And he’s asked me to marry him.”
What followed wasn’t just shouting—it was a storm. Rage, hurt, shock.
“So you’ve already forgotten Dad?!” my daughter nearly screamed, tears in her eyes.
“You’re bringing some random bloke 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 smell of his aftershave. But he’s gone, kids. I can’t bring him back, no matter how much I want to. 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 James, I’ll lose my kids. They’ll cut me off, walk out of my life. If I turn him down, I’ll be alone. Because kids don’t stay forever. Today they’re here—tomorrow, they’ll have their own families, their own lives. And me? I’ll just be “Mum, sitting alone in the flat.”
I told James, “Give me time. Maybe they’ll come around.” He nodded. Held me. Said he’d wait. But I don’t know how long his patience will last. And he’s got every right to walk away. He doesn’t carry my memories, my grief, my kids. He just wants to be with me. And that’s not a crime.
It hurts that my kids don’t see me as a person. I’ve lived honestly. I was a faithful wife, a devoted mum. I never walked away, never cheated, never broke anything. So why, when I just want to be happy, do I have to apologise for it?
I don’t blame them. I get it—they’re scared. Afraid James will replace their dad in my heart. That I’ll erase the past. But I won’t. Their dad will always be with us—in pictures, in stories, in memory. But I’m here. I’m alive.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit by the window and watch the city, where every light holds a story. Somewhere, someone’s falling in love. Someone’s getting married. Someone’s having a baby. And some people are just… living. And I realise—I want to live, too. Not just survive. Not just exist. But really live.
I don’t know what I’ll choose in the end. But I know one thing: I’m not a villain. I’m a woman. And I deserve to be happy.
