As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that I never want to marry again.
Over the years, I’ve recognized that I’ve dedicated my entire life to being an ideal mother—caring, gentle, free of bad habits—someone my children could always depend on. I have three children: two sons and a daughter, raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest, Alex, at 37, creating a considerable age gap between him and the older ones. I was always their pillar of strength, the rock they leaned on, but now, reflecting on my life, I see how little I kept for myself.
My life was spent in work. I worked tirelessly, supported my family, yet spent very little on myself. Everything went towards the children, the house, making a home for them. I never traveled, took breaks, or indulged myself, even though I secretly longed to. Before I got married, I was different: free-spirited, light-hearted, often escaping to the sea or the mountains whenever I felt like it. Then I married Nicholas. He wasn’t a bad man—didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, took care of the house in his way. But his messiness drove me up the wall: clothes were always strewn about, chaos became a part of our lives. And at 55, with the children grown and gone, I looked at myself and knew I couldn’t continue.
We lived in a spacious house near Manchester, but it had long stopped feeling like mine. Nicholas developed an expensive hobby—hunting. Three pedigree hounds, a collection of guns, sheds filled with gear—these consumed his time and money. And me? I couldn’t even have a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Much of what I loved irritated him. My dreams, my small joys were stifled under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired, yet I kept working—old habits of staying in control die hard. Once retired, I made up my mind. I suggested a divorce to Nicholas on one condition: he keeps our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and guns, and in return, I asked only for a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then our connection was threadbare. The children moved away, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for someone else, dissolving into his life without getting anything back.
Two years ago, in November, I moved into my new apartment in the heart of London. With only a worn-out bag in hand, I entered bare walls, carrying no traces of the past. And you know, I was happy—so happy it brought me to tears, made my heart race! For the first time in decades, I took a deep, free breath. Gradually, I started settling in: replaced the pipes, installed new windows, renewed the doors. Every nail driven into that flat was my little victory.
We officially divorced, and since then my life has been full of color. Now, every year, I visit the southern coast, enjoy live music at concerts, embark on trips I dreamed of when young. I have two fluffy cats—pedigreed, proud, my loyal companions. My relationship with the children is wonderful: they are happy for me, call, visit. Now, at nearly 62, I feel light and at peace, unafraid to say these are the happiest years of my life. I want to change nothing, don’t want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I gave too much—years, energy, dreams—to risk binding myself again with ties that could become chains. Soon, I’ll turn 62, and I have only one prayer: that I continue to enjoy this new, personal world for many more years. This is my story—the story of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t give this happiness to anyone.
