I am 56, and I have never been married. No, I am not a spinster. I have a wonderful daughter who is married, speaks five languages, and works for a major tech company. But a husband—that I have never had. And my daughter, unfortunately, has never met her biological father. We do not even know if he is still alive.
It was a youthful infatuation. He had come to Britain from Italy as an exchange student, studying English. We met by chance at some event at my university, where I studied modern languages. Back then, young people struck up friendships easily, especially students. At least, that is how it seems now.
It warmed my heart that he was Italian. To this day, no matter what, I adore Italy. My daughter and I have traveled the length of the country—from the canals of Venice to the olive groves of Puglia.
But I won’t dwell too much on our fleeting romance. Truthfully, there wasn’t much of one. We spent long walks through London—I showed him my city, and he would sometimes slip an arm around my waist.
It all happened quickly, carelessly, and without much thought. By the time I realised I was pregnant, my dark-haired Leo from Terracina was already gone, back to his own country.
My mother stood by me firmly then, saying we had no right to deny life once it had been given. My father, to my surprise, was overjoyed—even though I had just turned 21.
I was blessed with wonderful parents, and my daughter, in turn, with loving grandparents. They are no longer with us, but we remember them always.
Well, there I go, lost in the past. Now, about the present. I’m not sure why I am writing this, but I often read comments from other women—some in similar situations, others with thoughts worth pondering.
Six months ago, I met a man. Strangely enough, our story began with an argument. We were queuing at the till in our local shop, him just behind me. As I paid, I remembered I’d forgotten the coffee. The shop is small—the coffee was practically within reach—but still, it would have taken a moment. The man behind me, in his round spectacles, grew so cross I thought he might snap.
I didn’t engage. Silently, I paid and left. Then I heard quick footsteps behind me—it was him, that same rude stranger, only now smiling, a chocolate bar in hand. He caught up, apologising profusely, blaming exhaustion and frayed nerves.
I smiled back. And so, we became acquainted.
Turns out, we live barely streets apart. He is divorced, with two grown children, and owns his own flat. He works at one of the city’s museums—intelligent, well-mannered, a proper gentleman. After half a year, he asked for my hand and proposed that we move in together.
I agreed. Why? Perhaps to close some old chapter, to finally say I’ve been a wife. Or maybe just because I grew weary of solitude. My daughter has her own life now—a family, though no grandchildren yet. Or perhaps I wanted to prove something to myself. Does it even matter?
But here is the trouble. The moment our marriage notice went to the registry and my fiancé moved in, I felt a tension I hadn’t expected.
Understand—I have lived alone for decades. My habits are set, and it turns out, I am reluctant to change them.
For one, he snores dreadfully. I already sleep poorly; with his noise, I stand no chance. I need utter silence—only then can I rest properly.
He leaves his shoes by the door instead of the cupboard. He forgets to switch off lights. I know how fussy it sounds, but I have lived by my own rules for so long.
In the mornings, I like to drink my tea in peace and read the news on my tablet. Now, I must read aloud and discuss it with him. It feels as though my private moments are being stolen.
I don’t care for how he lounges about the house in shabby clothes, though he dresses smartly for work.
Perhaps I’ll grow used to it—the socks on the floor, the lectures, all of it. And if I don’t? What then?
