Divorcing in old age was no grand romantic gesture, nor some midlife crisis. It was admitting defeat. After forty years of marriage to a woman with whom Id shared not just the daily grind but also the silence, the empty stares over supper, and all the words never spoken aloudI hadnt been the man I should have been. My name is Edward, Im from Oxford, and my story began in loneliness and ended with a revelation I never saw coming.
With Helen, Id lived nearly a whole life. We married at twenty, back in the days of post-war Britain. There was love thenkisses on park benches, late-night conversations, shared dreams. Then, bit by bit, it all unravelled. First came the children, then the debts, the work, the exhaustion, the routine Our talks turned into notes left on the kitchen table: *Did you pay the gas? Wheres the receipt? Were out of salt.*
In the mornings, Id look at her and see not my wife, but a tired stranger. And no doubt, I was the same to her. We werent living togetherwe were just side by side. Stubborn and proud, I finally told myself: *You deserve more. A second chance. A breath of fresh air, at least.* So I asked for a divorce.
Helen didnt resist. She just sat down, gazed out the window, and said:
*Fine. Do as you like. Ive no strength left to fight.*
I moved out. At first, I felt free, as though Id shrugged off a great weight. I started sleeping on the other side of the bed, adopted a tabby cat, took my tea on the balcony at dawn. But soon, another feeling crept inemptiness. The house was too quiet. Meals lost their taste. Life became terribly predictable.
Then I had an idea that seemed brilliant: find a woman to help. Someone like Helen used tocooking, cleaning, chatting. Preferably younger, around fifty, kind, practical. Maybe a widow. I wasnt picky. *Im decent company,* I thought. *Ive a house, a pension. Why not?*
I started searchingdropped hints to neighbours, asked acquaintances. Then, I took a risk and placed an advert in the local paper. Short and to the point: *Gentleman, 68, seeks lady for companionship and domestic assistance. Good terms, room and board provided.*
That advert changed everything. Because three days later, I got a reply. Just one. But it made my hands shake.
*Dear Edward,
Do you truly believe, in this day and age, a woman exists to scrub socks and fry bangers? We dont live in the Victorian era.
Youre not looking for a companion, someone with a soul and desiresyou want a free housemaid dressed up as romance.
Perhaps you should learn to cook your own meals and tidy your own house first.
Sincerely,
A woman who isnt looking for a gentleman waving a mop.*
I read it five times. At first, I burned with rage. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasnt exploiting anyoneI just wanted comfort, a warm home, a womans touch
But then I began to think. Maybe she had a point. Maybe I *was* just chasing the ease Id grown used to. Expecting someone else to make life comfortable instead of building it myself.
So I started with the basics. Learned to make soup. Then a roast. Subscribed to a YouTube channel called *Grannys Kitchen,* shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. I felt clumsy, foolish. But in time, it stopped feeling like a chore. It was my life. My choice.
I even framed the letter and set it on the kitchen tablea reminder: *dont look for salvation in others before pulling yourself out of the pit.*
Three months on, I still live alone. But now my house smells of supper. There are flowers on the balconyones I planted myself. On Sundays, I bake orange cakeHelens recipe. And sometimes, I catch myself wondering: *Should I take her a slice?* For the first time in forty years, I understand what it means to stand beside someone not just as a husband, but as a person.
If anyone asks if Id marry again, Ill say no. But if, by chance, a woman sits beside me on a park benchnot looking for a master, just someone to talk toI might say a few words. Only now, Ill be a different man.
