As I have grown older, I’ve realized that I never want to get married again.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that I’ve always been the perfect mother—caring, gentle, without bad habits, the one my children could always rely on. I have three: two sons and a daughter, all of whom I’ve raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest, Alex, at 37, and there’s a significant age gap between him and the older ones. I was always their rock, their solid support, but now, reflecting on my life, I see how little I left for myself.
My life has been filled with hard work. I labored tirelessly, taking care of the family, but barely spent anything on myself. Everything went towards the kids, the house, creating a cozy home for them. I never traveled, never took a break, never treated myself—though deep down, I wanted to! Before marriage, I was different: free-spirited and light-hearted, often heading to the beach or the mountains—wherever my heart desired. Then I married Nicholas. He wasn’t a bad person—didn’t drink or smoke, and took care of the house as best he could. But his messiness drove me nuts: things scattered everywhere, chaos became part of our lives. At 55, when the children had grown up and moved out, I suddenly looked at myself and realized, I can’t do this anymore.
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 weapons, sheds filled with equipment consumed his time and money. And me? I wasn’t even allowed to have a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Many of the things I loved only seemed to irritate him. My dreams and small joys suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired, but continued to work—my habit of keeping everything under control wouldn’t let go. And finally, as a retiree, I made a decision. I proposed a divorce to Nicholas with a condition: I would leave him our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and guns, asking only for a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by that time, our connection had worn thin. The children had left, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for him, dissolving into his life, getting nothing in return.
Two years ago in November, I moved into my new flat in the city center. With just one worn bag in hand, into empty walls devoid of any past. And you know, I was happy—to tears, to a thrilling shiver in my chest! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started settling in slowly: replaced the pipes, installed new windows, updated the doors. Every nail driven into this flat was a small triumph for me.
We divorced officially, and since then, my life has blossomed. Now, each year I take trips to the seaside, enjoy live music at concerts, embark on the travels I dreamed of in my youth. I have two fluffy cats—pedigree, proud, my faithful companions. My relationship with my children is wonderful: they are happy for me, they call, they visit. And now, at nearly 62, I feel so light, so at peace, that I’m not afraid to say: these are the happiest years of my life. I don’t want to change anything, I don’t want to lose this freedom.
Get married again? Never. I’ve given too much—years, energy, dreams—to bind myself again with ties that might turn into chains. I’ll soon be 62, and I only pray for one thing: that I don’t fade away tomorrow, that I can 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 up for anything.
