Mom, youve gone round the bend! my daughter yells, staring at me as if Im a lunatic. Youre falling in love? At this age?
I stand in the kitchen of our little terraced house in York, a mug of tea steaming in my hand, and I cant believe what Im hearing. It isnt the surprise that shocks me, but the sheer aggression in her tone.
I dont understand, I say calmly. Youre an adult, married with kids of your own. I thought youd be happy that Im no longer alone.
Happy?! she snaps. You want to go on dates, hold hands in the street, maybe even spend the night with a man? Mum, youre a grandmother, not a teenager on Snapchat!
The words sting more than I expected.
I hadnt imagined the conversation going like this. I thought Id invite her for tea, sit down like two grown women, and tell her that for several months Ive been seeing someone. That I met Edward a warmhearted widower and weve been going to the cinema, taking walks, and sometimes just drinking coffee while talking about everything.
Instead of support, all I hear is shame and a verdict.
The grandchildren are going to wonder why Grandma is behaving like this. The neighbours will ask whats happened to you.
Maybe Im finally living, I mutter, barely recognising my own voice.
At this age?! she hisses. Pull yourself together.
All I can think is: do I really deserve this embarrassment just because I dared to love again?
For days I drift through the house like a shadow. I water the roses, simmer a pot of chicken soup, read a novel, yet nothing tastes the same. My daughters words echo in my mind: Grandparents shouldnt fall in love. Its embarrassing.
But I havent done anything wrong. I havent taken anyones place, I havent forgotten my grandchildren, I havent shirked my duties. Ive simply, for the first time in years, felt seen as more than Mrs. Smith from the ground floor. Im a woman of flesh and blood.
I first met Edward by chance in the public library when he picked up the book Id dropped. He smiled and said, Sometimes fate has better recommendations than Amazon. He made me laugh. A chat about literature turned into coffee at the corner bakery, and from there the friendship grew.
It wasnt love at first sight. Curiosity turned into warmth, which then turned into that strange tremor I havent felt in ages a sense that I still have reasons to care, still reasons to leave the house.
My daughter claims Im being foolish, that I should be busy with the grandkids, crocheting, or the garden. But must being a grandmother mean surrendering myself, my emotions, my need for closeness?
Edward never presses. When I tell him about the kitchen argument, he squeezes my hand and says, I dont want to come between you and your family. If youd rather I disappear, Ill understand.
I look at his lined face, his gentle eyes, and wonder why the world wont let us love when we finally understand what love really is.
I dont answer him straight away. I ask for a few days to think, to step back. Yet with each passing day a new feeling grows inside me not longing, not anger, but pride. Pride that, despite my late husbands death, lonely years, and everyones expectations, I can still love. I refuse to give that up.
I love my grandchildren. I love my daughter. But I didnt spend sixtyplus years just to lock myself inside these walls, waiting for permission to feel.
On Sunday I invite Poppy over for dinner. She arrives on time, flanked by her kids, her face tight, her voice chilly. We havent spoken since that kitchen showdown. The grandchildren romp around the flat while Poppy and I sit at the table, each lost in our own plate.
When dessert arrives, I say quietly, Im still seeing Edward. And Im not going to hide it.
Poppy looks at me, stunned. So youre going to keep at this?
Yes, I reply. Because for the first time in a long while I feel genuinely happy.
What will people think? The neighbours, the neighbours kids?
Maybe theyll think the same as I do, seeing a mother finally stop fearing life.
She falls silent. She hadnt expected me to answer without hesitation.
Im just embarrassed for you, Mum, she whispers. I never pictured you like this in old age.
And I never imagined an old age where Im forbidden to love, I say.
She leaves earlier than usual, no shouting, no tears, just the same coolness she arrived with.
That evening I take a walk with Edward. He holds my hand as we pass the houses on our street; some neighbours glance, some smile, some look away. For the first time, I dont care.
If love shows up after sixty, it isnt there to be shamed its there to finally be cherished.
