Divorcing at sixty-eight is no grand romantic gesture or midlife crisis. It’s admitting defeat—realising that after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom you shared not just a home but silence, empty stares over supper, and all the things left unsaid, you’d become someone you never meant to be. My name is William, I’m from Manchester, and my story began in loneliness but ended with a revelation I never saw coming.
I spent most of my life with Margaret. We married at twenty, back in the Thatcher years. At first, there was love—kisses on park benches, long evening talks, shared dreams. Then, bit by bit, it all faded. First came the children, then the mortgage, the jobs, the exhaustion, the daily grind. Conversations shrank to kitchen notes: *”Did you pay the gas bill?” “Where’s the receipt?” “We’re out of tea.”*
I’d look at her in the morning and see not a wife but a weary flatmate. And I suppose I was no different to her. We weren’t living together—we were coexisting. A stubborn, proud man, I finally told myself: *”You deserve more. A fresh start. A breath of air, for heaven’s sake.”* So I filed for divorce.
Margaret didn’t argue. She just sat at the kitchen table, stared out the window, and said:
*”Fine. Do what you want. I’m done fighting.”*
I left. At first, I felt free, as if I’d shrugged off a great weight. I slept on the other side of the bed, got a tabby cat, started drinking my morning coffee by the window. But then came the hollowness. The house was too quiet. Meals tasted bland. Life felt too predictable.
That’s when I had what seemed a brilliant idea: find a woman to help. Like Margaret used to—do the laundry, cook, clean, maybe chat. Someone a bit younger, fifty-five perhaps, kind, practical. A widow, maybe. My demands were modest. *”I’m not a bad catch,”* I thought. *”Retired, tidy, own my flat. Why not?”*
I started looking. Mentioned it to neighbours, hinted to friends. Then I took the plunge—placed an ad in the local paper. Straight to the point: *”Man, 68, seeks woman for companionship and domestic help. Good terms, room and board provided.”*
That ad turned my life upside down. Because three days later, I got one reply. Just one. And it made my hands shake.
*”Dear William,
Do you honestly believe women in the 2020s exist solely to wash socks and fry your dinner? This isn’t the Victorian era.
You’re not looking for a partner—you want an unpaid housekeeper with a romantic veneer.
Perhaps you ought to learn to cook your own meals and tidy your own home first?
Sincerely,
A woman not in search of an elderly lord with a dishrag.”*
I read it five times. At first, I was furious. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasn’t trying to exploit anyone—I just wanted warmth, comfort, a woman’s touch…
But then I wondered: Was she right? Had I really just been seeking convenience, expecting someone else to make my life cosy instead of doing it myself?
So I started small. Learned to make a proper stew. Then shepherd’s pie. Subscribed to a cooking channel, shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. It felt odd, clumsy, even foolish. But in time, it stopped being a chore. It became my life. My choice.
I even framed that letter and hung it above the kitchen table—a reminder: *Don’t expect others to rescue you before you’ve pulled yourself up.*
Three months on, I’m still alone. But now my flat smells of fresh bread. The window box blooms with flowers I planted. On Sundays, I bake apple crumble—Margaret’s recipe. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, *”I should take her some.”* For the first time in forty years, I’ve learned what it means not just to be a husband, but to stand on my own feet.
Now, if anyone asks if I’d marry again, I’d say no. But if a woman sat beside me on a park bench—not looking for a master, just someone to talk to—I’d strike up a conversation. Only this time, I’d be a different man.
