I’m 56, and I’ve never been married. No, I’m not some spinster—I’ve a splendid daughter who’s wed, speaks five languages, and works for a top IT firm. But a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, alas, never met her biological father. We don’t even know if he’s alive.
It was a youthful fling. He’d come to Britain from Italy on a student exchange, studying English. We met by chance at some event at my university. Back then, young people struck up friendships quickly—students especially. Or so it seems now.
It warmed my heart that he was Italian. To this day, despite everything, I adore Italy. My daughter and I have travelled the length of the boot—from Cornwall to the Highlands.
I won’t dwell on our romance. Truth be told, there wasn’t much of one. We wandered London for hours. I showed him my city, and he’d slip an arm round my waist.
It all happened swiftly, casually, without fuss. By the time I realised I was pregnant, Leo, my fiery brunet from Naples, had already left the country.
Mum was supportive, saying we’d no right to take a life once given. Dad? Overjoyed, even though I’d only just turned 21. I was lucky with my parents, and my girl with her grandparents. They’re gone now, but we’ll always remember them.
But enough of the past. Now, the present. I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I often read comments online. Many share similar tales, and sometimes there’s a thought worth pondering.
Six months ago, I met a man. Oddly, it began with a row. We were queuing at the till—him behind me. As my items scanned, I remembered I’d forgotten the coffee. The shop’s tiny, just round the corner, the coffee practically within reach—but still, a minute’s delay. The man in round glasses scowled so fiercely I thought he might strike me.
I didn’t engage. Paid silently, left. Then—quick footsteps behind me. I turned, and there he was, the rude bloke, now grinning, holding out a bar of chocolate. He caught up, apologising for his temper. Said work had been brutal lately. Nerves shot.
I smiled. And that’s how we met.
Turns out, we’re near-neighbours. Divorced, two grown children, owns his flat. Works at one of the city’s museums. Clever, refined—a proper gentleman. After half a year, he proposed and asked to move in.
I agreed. Don’t know why. Maybe to close some chapter—to be a wife at last. Or perhaps loneliness wore me down. My daughter’s grown, with her own life, yet no grandchildren in sight. Or maybe I’m proving something to myself. Does it matter?
But here’s the trouble. The moment the marriage papers were filed and he shifted into my home, something tightened in the air.
Understand—I’ve lived alone for years. Habits carved deep, and now I find I don’t wish to alter them.
For one, he snores. Horribly. I scarcely sleep as it is—his racket murders what little hope remains. I need tomb-quiet to rest.
He leaves shoes strewn about, never turns off lights, drifts through rooms like a spectre. It sounds petty, I know. But I’ve rules.
Mornings, I must have coffee in silence, skim the news on my tablet. Now, I read headlines aloud, dissect them with him. It’s as though my solitude’s been snatched.
At home, he slouches like a tramp, though he dresses smart for work. Maybe I’ll adjust—to socks on the floor, to his endless lectures. Or perhaps I won’t.
