I’m 56, and I’ve never been married. No, I’m not a spinster. I have a wonderful daughter—she’s married, speaks five languages, and works for a major IT firm. But as for a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, unfortunately, never met her biological father. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.
It was a youthful fling. He came to Britain from Italy as an exchange student, studying English. We met by chance at an event in my university, where I was studying linguistics.
Back then, young people got acquainted quickly, especially students. At least, that’s how it seems now.
It warmed my heart that he was Italian. To this day, despite everything, I adore Italy. My daughter and I have traveled all over the “boot,” from Venice to Puglia.
I won’t go into detail about our romance—truthfully, there wasn’t much of one. We spent a lot of time strolling through London. I showed him my hometown, and he’d slip his arm around my waist.
Everything happened fast, impulsively, matter-of-factly. By the time I realised I was pregnant, my dark-haired Leo from Terracina was already gone.
My mum was my rock. She said we had no right to take a life, as it was given from above. My dad, to my surprise, was overjoyed—even though I’d just turned 21.
I was lucky with my parents, and my little girl was lucky with her grandparents. They’re no longer with us, but their memory lives on.
Well, enough about the past. Now, the present. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I often read comments from others. Many share similar stories, and sometimes there’s a thought that sticks with me.
Six months ago, I met a man. Strangely, we started with an argument. We were in a queue at the till—he was behind me. As I scanned my groceries, I remembered I’d forgotten coffee. It’s a tiny shop near my house; the coffee’s practically at arm’s length, but still takes a moment. This man in round glasses got so furious I thought he might hit me.
I didn’t engage. Silent, I paid and left. Then I heard quick footsteps. Turning, it was him—only now he was smiling, holding a chocolate bar.
He rushed over, stopped me, and apologised for his outburst. Said work had been rough lately, nerves shot. I smiled. That’s how we met.
Turns out, we’re practically neighbours. Divorced, two grown kids, owns his flat. Works at one of our city’s museums. He’s sharp, well-mannered—decent through and through. After six months, he proposed and suggested moving in together.
I agreed. Don’t know why. Maybe to close a chapter, to finally be a wife. Or maybe just tired of solitude. My daughter’s grown—her own life, her own family—though I’m still waiting for grandchildren.
Or maybe I’m proving something to myself. Perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore.
But here’s the rub. The moment our marriage notice went in and he moved in, tension crept in.
Understand—I’ve lived alone for years. My habits are set, and I’ve realised I don’t want to change them.
For one, he snores. Loudly. I already sleep poorly; his snoring leaves me none. I need tomb-like silence to rest.
He leaves shoes by the door, never turns lights off, wanders around in scruffy clothes—though for work, he dresses like he’s on a runway.
I know how fussy this sounds. But I’ve lived by certain rules. Mornings are for quiet coffee and reading news on my tablet. Now, I read aloud, discuss headlines—it’s like my space has been invaded.
Maybe I’ll adjust. To socks on the floor, to his long-winded lectures. Or maybe not. Perhaps love isn’t about perfection—but about patience, even when the quirks drive you mad.
