I was 62, he was 49—he claimed to love me, yet I cooked and scrubbed… until I finally showed him the door.
Years had passed since my painful divorce, but the scars still ached. My first husband wasn’t just a failure—he was a bloodsucker, draining my strength, my money, my will to live. He never worked, drank like a fish, vanished at night, then scavenged our home for things to pawn. I endured it all, though. For my son. For Gabriel. Only for him.
When the boy turned twelve, he looked up at me one day and said:
“Mum, why do you put up with him? Just kick him out.”
It struck me like lightning. The truth was blinding. That same evening, I shoved my husband out the door—no pity, just relief. Freedom. I can’t describe the joy of breathing without fear or guilt.
After that, there were men. A few. Some messaged, some invited me to the cinema. But I never fell for any of them. I *couldn’t*. Fear. Fear of stepping into another trap, of becoming a maid instead of a woman.
The last four years were the loneliest. Gabriel moved to Canada, found work, then settled there for good. He begged me to join him. But I couldn’t. Too late to start over in a foreign land. Forty years of my life were rooted here—memories, joy, pain, all of it.
Then the pandemic came. Silence. No visitors, no embraces. Just four walls and emptiness.
A friend once told me:
“Find *someone*. Just to talk, to laugh… You’re not made of stone!”
I sighed.
“Look at men my age—grey, hunched, pitiful. They don’t want a woman; they want a nurse. And I won’t be that. I want to be *loved*.”
“Then go younger! You look fantastic, honestly.”
I waved her off. But the seed was planted.
Then one day, I saw *him*.
Tall, trim, always in a black jacket, walking his dog in the park. His name was Keith. Forty-nine. Divorced—his ex had moved to France, their grown daughter lived nearby.
We talked. Then talked more. Coffee followed. Then flowers. Every day. Soon, he was staying over. Then living with me.
The neighbors gasped:
“What a catch! Handsome, fit—and with *you*, Margaret? You’ve got magic in you!”
It felt good, of course it did. I made his meals, ironed his shirts, greeted him with a smile. I remembered what it was to feel like a woman again.
Until one day, he said:
“Love, you should move more. Why not walk the dog for me?”
I frowned.
“Why don’t we go together?”
“Well… best not be seen together too much. People talk.”
The truth hit me like ice: he was ashamed. Of my age. My wrinkles, my silver hair. *Me.*
I looked around. He never lifted a finger—didn’t even toss his socks in the laundry. And me? Cooking, cleaning, ironing, scrubbing… A servant. Not a lover. Not a woman. Just *service.*
I steadied myself.
“Keith, chores should be equal. Iron your own shirts. Walk your own dog.”
He smirked.
“Look, if you wanted a younger man, you’ve got to keep up. Please me, pamper me, *serve* me. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
I stared at him—a stranger now.
“You’ve got half an hour to pack.”
“*What?!* My daughter and her bloke were coming to stay—are you joking?”
“Stay with *them*, then. Good luck.”
I shut the door quietly. No screams, no drama. Then I sat and wept.
Yes, it hurt. Yes, it stung. But I wasn’t broken. I’d done the right thing. If a man only takes and never gives, it’s not love—it’s *parasitism*.
I’m 62. I’ve got wrinkles and tired feet. But my soul’s alive, still hungry for warmth. I still believe love’s possible. That somewhere, a man might want me—not just *use* me.
He doesn’t need to be younger, taller, better. Just *there*. Honest. Tender. Kind.
Because a woman—even at 62—has every right to stand unbroken.
