I was sixty-two when I met him—forty-nine he was, whispered sweet words of love while I cooked and scrubbed his clothes. Until the day I showed him the door.
Years had passed since my bitter divorce, yet the scars lingered, stubborn as old stains. My first husband had been more than a failure—he was a leech, draining my strength, my money, my will to carry on. He never worked, drowned himself in drink, vanished into the night, then returned to pilfer from our home like a scavenger. And I endured it. All for my son. For Gabriel. Only for him.
When the boy turned twelve, he came to me, stared straight into my eyes, and said:
“Mum, why do you put up with him? Throw him out. Just throw him out.”
It struck me like lightning. Everything, suddenly clear as daylight. That very evening, I turned my husband out—no pity, only relief. Freedom. I can’t describe the joy of breathing without fear or guilt.
There were men after that. A few. Some wrote letters, some asked me to the pictures. But I never let myself fall. Couldn’t. Fear, you see—the dread of stepping into that trap again, of becoming a servant rather than a woman.
The last four years were the loneliest. My son left for Canada, found work, then stayed for good. He begged me to join him, but how could I? Too late to start anew in a strange land, among unfamiliar faces. I’d lived here forty years—this place held my memories, my roots, my sorrows, my joys.
Then the pandemic came. And that was that. No visitors, no embraces. Just silence and four walls.
A friend once said to me:
“Find someone, won’t you? Just to talk, to laugh with. You’re not made of stone!”
I told her:
“When I look at men my age, my heart aches. Grey-haired, bent-backed—nothing but pity in them. They don’t want a woman—they need a nurse. And I won’t be a nurse. I want to be loved.”
“Then find a younger one! You’re still striking, honestly.”
I brushed her off. But the seed was planted.
Then, one day, I saw him.
He walked his dog every evening in the square near my house. Tall, trim, always in a black jacket. His name was Edward. Forty-nine. Divorced—his wife had gone off to Spain, their grown daughter stayed behind.
One word led to another. Then came coffee. Then flowers. Every day. I don’t recall when he began staying over, then simply living with me.
The neighbours gasped:
“What a man! Handsome as sin, and with you, Margaret?! You must be a witch!”
And I was pleased. Of course I was. I cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, met him at the door with a smile. Felt like a woman again.
Then, one evening, he said:
“Listen, you ought to move about more. You could walk my dog for me.”
I frowned.
“Why don’t we go together?”
“Ah—best not be seen together too often. Tongues wag, you know…”
And then it hit me—he was ashamed. Of me. My age. My wrinkles, my grey hair, whatever it was.
I looked around. He’d never lifted a finger in the house. Didn’t even put his socks in the laundry. And me? Cooking, ironing, cleaning, washing… A housemaid. Not beloved. Not a woman. Just service.
I gathered my nerve and said,
“Edward, I think chores should be shared. Iron your own shirts. Walk your own dog.”
He smirked.
“Darling, if you wanted a younger, handsomer man, you’d best act the part. Please, entertain, serve. Else why would I stay?”
I stared at him like a specimen. Then I said only:
“You’ve half an hour to pack.”
“What?! My daughter and her bloke were coming to stay here—are you mad?”
“Then stay with her. Good luck.”
I put him out. No shouting, no scene. Just shut the door behind him. Then I sat down and wept.
Yes, it hurt. Humiliating. Lonely. But not broken. I knew I’d done right. Because if a man comes into your home only to take, never to give—that’s not love. That’s parasitism.
I’m sixty-two. I’ve wrinkles and weary legs. But I’ve still a soul, hungry for warmth. And I still believe love’s possible. That somewhere, there’s a man who’ll want me—not use me.
Doesn’t have to be younger, taller, better. Just beside me. Honestly. With warmth. With respect.
Because a woman—even at sixty-two—has every right not to be broken.
