Well, it so happens that Im 60 years old and living on my own in London. There are no children or husband lurking in the background, though once upon a time I did bear the title of wife. I married for love at age 25yes, young and foolish, as we all are at some point.
The marriage unraveled thanks to my husbands delightful way with fidelity. He had the nerve to bring his mistress right into our flat. Naturally, I wasnt about to sit around and watch that grim soap opera unfold, so I packed my belongings and scurried off to my parents’ place. Just two months after the divorce, the universe decided to throw me another curveball: I found out I was pregnant.
Frankly, I never told my ex-husband. Theres something to be said for peace and quiet. I made up my mind to raise the baby myself. When I had my son, the doctors delivered bad news in a manner worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy. Your child is terribly frail, Im afraid, they said, and, unfortunately, he has an incurable illness. If he makes it to 11 or 12, itll be nothing short of a miracle.
I was utterly lost, unsure whether to turn to the NHS or some higher power. I nursed my son every day, but in the back of my mind, one idea stubbornly remained: my boy wouldnt be long for this world.
He made it to age 15. As fate would have it, my son and my father passed away within a week of each othera double whammy. I found myself bereft, losing two of my closest family members.
My father left me his flat, which wasnt just spacious but also bang in the heart of Manchester. I spent the ensuing years alone, with the occasional romantic interest but nothing serious. I desperately wanted another child but feared history would repeat itself, so I kept my distance. On my 45th birthday, I bought myself a laptopto keep in touch with relatives and to keep tabs on the endless circus that is British news.
Almost immediately, my family cottoned on to the fact that I was living solo, and began visiting in relay fashion, bringing gifts and quirky souvenirs. They routinely asked if Id written a will, and upon learning the answer was a resounding no, would moan about their financial woes. Some would even prod other relatives, trying to appear the most deserving candidate for my lovely centrally-located flat. Truth be told, I know exactly wholl inherit the place: my friends daughter, Emily, who constantly helps me out with no expectation of anything in return.
Meanwhile, the rest of the family is really just after the flat. Eventually, I stopped contacting them, but that didnt halt their campaigns.
One day, my cousin rang and, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, asked if I was still alive and who would get the flat after me. I was so insulted that I blocked every last one of them. No more calls, no more messagesmy phone is finally peaceful, and so am I.
