Im forty years old, and twice Ive nearly married. Not because I didnt love, but because in both cases, I realised that matrimony meant a little bit of me would go missingvanishing between the lines of wife and self.
Im an international law solicitor. My life is airports, hotels, virtual meetings, and clients scattered from London to Liverpool and occasionally sunny corners of Cornwall. It took years to reach any semblance of stability. Fourteen-hour workdays, essays scribbled on train platforms, sleeping on terminal benches, holidays abandoned for court dates. I didnt come from a well-heeled family, so everything I own I built brick by brick myself.
My first fiancé came along when I was thirty-four. His name was Edward, a surgical consultant already established in Manchester, complete with his own practice and a regimented daily routine. In the beginning, it was all excitementlate-night chats, spontaneous weekend trips, schemes to see each other every month.
Eight months into the whirlwind, he proposed at a posh restaurant. Out came the ring, in full view of everyone. I said yes, sobbed, hugged him, called my mum that evening. Then reality set in. Suddenly, Edward talked about when you move up here, when you stop jetting about, and when you find something less hectic. Never once did he ask if I actually wanted to move, or slow down, or reinvent my entire life to fit his own. He simply assumed Id slot nicely into his Manchester world.
One night, in his flat, while he checked the hospital rota, I stared at my diarypacked with flights and appointments. The penny dropped: if I married him, Id be the doctors wife, not the woman who built her own life, piece by piece. Two months later, I handed back the ring. We both cried. It hurt, but I have no regrets.
The second attempt was different altogether. He was called Jamesa commercial airline pilot I met, quite literally, in the arrivals hall at Heathrow. We bonded over a delayed flight and ended up at dinner in Edinburgh. He was caring, funny, he travelled as much as I did. After a year, he proposednot in some swanky restaurant, but in a hotel room after a particularly gruelling flight. I accepted, feeling, for the first time, genuinely understood.
Then things got odd. Mysterious mood swings, phone forever on silent, deleted messages, strange excuses for flights that never matched public schedules. One day, a woman messaged me from an unknown number. She didnt say much but referenced details that only someone close could know. No legal proof, no incriminating photos, but the puzzle pieces started to formdisappearances, white lies, evasive answers.
One evening, in my own flat, I confronted James. He denied everything, stared into my eyes and swore I was imagining it all. That night, I made my choice. No drama, no shouting, just a calm end to the engagement. I told him I couldnt marry a man I no longer trusted.
Today, Im forty. Biologically, not exactly prime-time for motherhoodbut Im not panicking. My career, my pace, my holidays, my house, my quiet evenings, all still here. I dont feel hollow. I dont feel incomplete.
Sometimes people ask if I regret not marrying. My answers always the same: Id only regret marrying for compromise or betrayal.
I dont know what happens next. But Im contentand thats quite enough for me.
