I’m 56, and I’ve never been married. No, I’m not an old maid. I have a lovely daughter who’s wed, speaks five languages, and works for a major tech firm. But a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, sadly, never knew her biological father. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.
It was a youthful fling. He’d come to Britain from Italy as an exchange student, studying English. We met by chance at some event at my university, where I was studying languages. Back then, young people struck up friendships quickly—students especially. Or at least, that’s how it seems now.
I was charmed by the fact he was Italian. To this day, despite everything, I adore Italy. My daughter and I have travelled the length of the country—from Cornwall to the Highlands.
I won’t dwell on our brief romance. If I’m honest, there wasn’t much of one. We spent days wandering through Edinburgh. I showed him my hometown, and he’d gently slip an arm around my waist.
It all happened swiftly, without thought or ceremony. By the time I realised I was with child, my dark-haired Leo from Naples was long gone, back to his own country.
My mother stood by me then. She said we’d no right to take a life, for it was given from above. My father, bless him, was overjoyed—even though I was barely 21.
I was fortunate in my parents, and my daughter in her grandparents. They’ve all passed now, but their memory stays with us.
Ah, reminiscing. Now, the present. I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I often read others’ stories. Many share similar tales, or offer a thought worth pondering.
Six months ago, I met a man. Oddly, our acquaintance began with a quarrel. We were queuing at the till in the local shop—him behind me. As I paid for my groceries, I remembered I’d forgotten the coffee. The shop’s small, the coffee just a reach away, but still a minute’s delay. The man in round spectacles was so furious, I thought he might strike me.
I didn’t engage. Paid in silence and left. Then came hurried footsteps. I turned—there he was, the same ill-tempered fellow, but now smiling, holding out a bar of chocolate.
He caught up, apologising profusely. Said he’d been overworked, nerves frayed. I smiled. And so, we met.
Turns out, we’re near neighbours. Divorced, two grown children, his own flat. Works at one of the city’s museums. Clever, refined, decent—after half a year, he proposed and asked to move in together.
I agreed. Why? Perhaps to close some unfinished chapter, to call myself a wife at last. Or maybe just tired of solitude. My daughter’s grown, her own life and family, though grandchildren remain elusive. Or perhaps I’m proving something to myself. Does it matter?
But here’s the trouble. Once the marriage notice was filed and my fiancé moved in, I felt a tension I hadn’t expected.
Understand, I’ve lived alone for years. Habits formed, and now I find I’m loath to change them.
He snores dreadfully. Sleep’s hard enough for me without that thunderous racket. I need utter stillness to rest.
He leaves shoes scattered, forgets to switch off lights. It sounds petty, I know. But I’ve grown accustomed to my own ways.
Mornings, I must have quiet—coffee, the news on my tablet. Now, I’m reading headlines aloud, discussing them. As though my solitude’s been stolen.
I dislike how he lounges about like a tramp, though he dresses smart for work.
Perhaps I’ll adjust. To the socks on the floor, the lengthy lectures. And if not? Well. We shall see.
