**Diary Entry**
Divorce at sixty-eight isn’t a romantic gesture or a midlife crisis. It’s admitting you’ve lost—that after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom you shared not just a home but silence, blank stares over dinner, and all the things left unsaid, you weren’t the man you thought you’d be. My name is Stephen, I’m from Bristol, and my story began with loneliness but ended with a revelation I never saw coming.
Halina and I spent nearly our whole lives together. We married at twenty, back in the Thatcher years. In the beginning, there was love—kisses on park benches, long talks at night, shared dreams. Then, bit by bit, it vanished. First came the children, then the bills, the jobs, the exhaustion, the grind… Conversations shrank to kitchen notes: “Did you pay the electricity?” “Where’s the receipt?” “We’re out of salt.”
Mornings, I’d look at her and see not a wife but a weary flatmate. And I suppose I was the same to her. We weren’t living together—just side by side. I’m stubborn, proud, and one day I told myself, “You deserve more. A fresh start. A bit of air, for God’s sake.” So I filed for divorce.
Halina didn’t argue. She just sat by the window and said, “Fine. Do what you want. I’m done fighting.”
I left. At first, I felt free, like I’d shrugged off a boulder. I slept on the other side of the bed, adopted a cat, drank coffee on the balcony at dawn. But soon, emptiness crept in. The house grew too quiet. Meals tasted bland. Life felt too predictable.
Then came what I thought was a brilliant idea: find a woman to help me. Like Halina used to—someone to tidy up, cook, chat. A widow, perhaps, in her fifties, kind, no fuss. I even thought, “I’m not a bad catch—neat, retired, with a house. Why not?”
I started looking. Asked around, dropped hints. Then, bold as brass, I put an ad in the local paper: “Gentleman, 68, seeks lady for companionship and domestic assistance. Comfortable living provided.”
That ad changed everything. Three days later, I got a letter. Just one. But it left my hands shaking.
*Dear Stephen,*
*Do you honestly believe women in the 2020s exist solely to wash socks and fry cutlets? This isn’t the Victorian era.*
*You’re not after a partner—just unpaid help with a romantic veneer.*
*Perhaps it’s time you learned to cook your own meals and tidy your own house?*
*Sincerely,*
*A woman who isn’t looking for an old master with a feather duster.*
I read it five times. At first, I was furious. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasn’t exploiting anyone—just wanted warmth, a woman’s touch…
But then—what if she was right? Had I really just wanted convenience? Was I still waiting for someone to make life easy instead of doing it myself?
I started small. Learned to make soup. Then shepherd’s pie. Subscribed to a cooking channel, shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. It felt odd, even silly. But in time, it stopped being a chore. It became my life. My choice.
I framed that letter and hung it above the kitchen table. A reminder: don’t expect others to rescue you when you haven’t even tried.
Three months on, I’m still alone. But my house smells of supper now. The balcony has flowers I planted myself. On Sundays, I bake apple crumble—Halina’s recipe. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, “I should take her some.” For the first time in forty years, I’ve learned what it means to be not just a husband, but a proper man.
If anyone asks if I’d marry again, I’ll say no. But if a woman sits beside me on a bench, not looking for a keeper but just someone to talk to—I’ll speak to her. Only now, I’ll be a different man.
