Dear Diary,
I married my nextdoor neighbour, Albert Finch, who is eightytwo, simply to keep the care home from taking him.
Are you out of your mind? my sister Clare nearly spilled her tea when I told her.
First, hes eightytwo, not eightyone, I replied as calmly as I could. And second let me finish.
It all began when I overheard his children chatting under his windows. They turned up twice a year just to check that their father was still breathing, then vanished again. This time they arrived clutching brochures for residential homes.
Dad, youre eightytwo now. You cant live alone, they urged.
My age is eightytwo, not eightytwo illnesses, Albert croaked, his voice warm despite the rasp. I cook for myself, I go to the market, and I even binge BBC dramas without a hint of fatigue. Im perfectly fine.
That evening Albert knocked on my door, a bottle of red in hand and the look of someone gearing up for a desperate yet crucial conversation.
I need a favour a bit odd, he said.
A couple of glasses later, that odd favour turned into a proposal of hand and heart.
Just on paper, he explained. If Im married, my children will find it harder to slip me away far from their sight.
I stared into his blue eyes, still flickering with mischief and resolve, and thought of my quiet nights: a flat with only the hum of the TV and the weight of silence.
He was the only one who asked me each day, How are you, Margaret?
Whats in it for me? I asked.
Half the bills, Sunday shepherds pie and someone who cares that youre home again, he answered.
Three weeks later we stood in the York Register Office. I wore a simple cream dress Id found in a secondhand shop. He was in an old tweed suit that smelled faintly of mothballs and memories. Our witnesses were the kiosk shopkeeper and her husband, who barely kept back their laughter.
You may now kiss the bride, the registrar announced.
Albert planted a kiss on my cheek so loud it seemed to burst an envelope.
From then on everything fell into an oddly smooth rhythm: he rose at six, performed his legendary five pushups; I drank yesterdays tea and stayed up late after work.
This isnt tea, its torture, he grumbled.
Your exercises are a parody of sport, I retorted.
Sundays filled the house with the aroma of shepherds pie and laughter. He spoke of his late wife, the love of his life, and of children who saw him more as a problem than a father.
One afternoon his children burst in, accusations flying.
Shes using him! they shouted.
I hear you perfectly! Albert roared from the kitchen, And by the way, your tea is dreadful!
Why this marriage? his daughter asked, her eyes cold as winter frost.
I glanced at Albert, humming as he poured me a fresh cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to share Sunday dinner with. Someone to say Im home. Someone who smiles at my jokes. Is that a crime?
The door slammed shut, sealing their argument with finality.
Albert brought two mugs.
They think Ive gone mad, he said.
Theyre not wrong, I smiled.
Youre mad too, he replied.
Thats why were perfect together.
Your tea is still poison, he teased.
And your workouts are a cartoon, I shot back.
But its family, isnt it? he said.
We clinked our mugs against the backdrop of a rosy sunset and a love that felt both real and surreal.
Six months on, nothing has changed: he still gets up too early, I still ruin the tea, and Sundays still smell of shepherds pie and happiness.
Do you ever regret it? I ask myself every now and then.
Not for a second, I answer, always.
Let others call our marriage a sham. To me, its the most genuine thing that has ever happened in my life.
Margaret.
