Dear Diary,
I married the man next door, who is eightytwo, simply to keep him out of a care home.
Are you out of your mind? my sister Megan nearly dropped her tea when I told her.
First of all, hes eightytwo, not eightytwo years old, I replied as calmly as possible. And secondly let me finish.
It all began when I overheard his children chatting beneath his windows. They only turned up twice a year: to check that their father was still breathing, then vanished again. This time they clung to him with glossy leaflets for nursing homes.
Dad, youre already eightytwo. You cant live alone.
Its eightytwo years, not eightytwo ailments, he snapped in his hoarse, warm voice. I cook for myself, I go to the market, and I even bingewatch dramas without a hint of fatigue. Im perfectly fine!
That evening he knocked on my door, a bottle of red in hand, looking like a man about to have a desperate yet important conversation.
I need a little help something a bit odd.
A couple of glasses later, that odd help turned into a proposal of marriage.
Just on paper, he explained. If Im married, my children will find it harder to send me away, out of sight.
I stared into his blue eyes, still twinkling with mischief and resolve, and thought of my quiet nights: an empty flat, the telly murmuring, solitude hanging heavy. He was the only one who asked me how my day had gone every single morning.
Whats in it for me? I asked.
Half the bills, a Sunday cottage pie and someone wholl be glad youre home again.
Three weeks later we stood in the register office.
I wore a dress that said found this this morning.
He was in a threadbare suit scented with mothballs and memories.
Our witnesses were the lady from the corner shop and her husband, both struggling not to burst into laughter.
May you kiss the bride, the clerk announced.
He planted a kiss on my cheek so loudly it might as well have ripped an envelope open.
From then on everything fell into an oddly smooth rhythm: he rose at six, performed his legendary five pushups, I drank yesterdays coffee and stayed up late after work.
This isnt coffee, its torture, he grumbled.
Your exercises are a parody of sport, I retorted.
Sundays filled the house with the scent of cottage pie and laughter. He talked about his late wife, the love of his life, and about the children who now saw him less as a father and more as a problem.
Then one day those very children stormed in, accusations flying.
Shes using him!
I hear you perfectly! he shouted from the kitchen. And by the way, your coffee is terrible!
Why this marriage? his daughter asked, her stare as cold as winter.
I glanced at where he was humming while pouring me a fresh cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to share Sunday dinner with, someone to say Im home, someone who delights in my laughter. Is that a crime?
The door slammed shut so hard it seemed to seal their argument forever.
He brought two mugs.
They think Ive gone mad.
Theyre not wrong, I smiled.
Youre mad too.
Thats why were perfect together.
Your coffee is still poison.
Your pushups are a cartoon.
Well, were a family.
We clinked our mugs against the backdrop of a setting sun and a love that felt entirely real, even if it was a bit unconventional.
Six months on, nothing has changed: he still gets up far too early, I still ruin the coffee, and Sundays still smell of cottage pie and happiness.
Do you ever regret it?
Not for a single second, I answer every time.
Let others call our marriage a façade. To me its the most genuine thing that has ever happened in my life.
Poppy.
