As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that I don’t ever want to marry again.
Over the years, I came to understand that I spent my life being the perfect mother—caring, gentle, free of bad habits, and always ready for my kids to rely on me. I have three children: two sons and a daughter, all raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest, Alex, at 37, and there’s quite an age gap between him and his older siblings. I was always their rock, their sturdy wall of support, but now, looking back, I see how little I kept for myself.
My life was a whirlwind of work. I tirelessly provided for the family, but spared little for my own needs. Everything went toward the kids, the house, creating a homey environment for them. I neither traveled nor indulged myself, though deep down, I yearned for it! Before marriage, I was a different person: carefree, lighthearted, heading to the seaside or mountains on a whim. Then I married Nick. He wasn’t a bad man—he didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, and he took care of the house as best he could. But his messiness drove me crazy; his things were always scattered everywhere, and chaos became part of our home. At 55, when the children had grown and gone, I suddenly looked at my life and thought: I cannot do this anymore.
We lived in a spacious house near London, but it stopped feeling like mine long ago. Nick picked up an expensive hobby—hunting. Three pedigree hounds, an arsenal of weapons, sheds full of gear—it consumed his time and money. And me? I couldn’t even have a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Many things I loved only seemed to irritate him. My dreams and little joys suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but kept working, unable to let go of the habit of being in control. Then, newly retired, I made a decision. I proposed divorce to Nick, with the condition that he keep our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and his guns, while I would take a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then, our connection was hanging by a thread. The children had left, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for him, melting into his life, receiving nothing in return.
Two years ago in November, I moved into my new flat in the city center. With just a worn bag in hand, I entered those bare walls, free from any traces of the past. And you know, I was truly happy—tears of joy, a thrill in my chest! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started fixing the place up: replaced the pipes, installed new windows, refreshed the doors. Every nail driven in was a small victory for me.
We divorced officially, and since then, my life has burst into color. Now, I visit the seaside every year, enjoy live music concerts, and take trips I dreamed of in my youth. I share my home with two fluffy cats—pedigreed and proud, my loyal companions. I have a wonderful relationship with my children: they’re happy for me, they call, they visit. And now, nearly 62, I feel so light and at peace, 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.
Marry again? Never. I’ve given too much—years, energy, dreams—to bind myself again in chains. I’ll soon be 62, and I pray for just one thing: not to fade tomorrow, so I can enjoy this new world of mine 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 away this happiness to anyone.
