“I Deserve Love Too”
Lately, Emma couldn’t figure out why her family didn’t understand her—even though she’d never felt happier. Instead of being glad for her, they whispered behind her back, spreading nonsense to their mutual friends.
Emma was 54, a lovely woman who worked in a big office where everyone respected her. She’d been there for years, always helpful, especially to the younger colleagues. Kindness came naturally to her.
Her life hadn’t always been happy. Her first marriage was a disaster. Her mum, Margaret, had begged her not to go through with it.
“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Margaret had said. “Don’t marry Paul. He’ll never make a proper husband. Just look at his dad—never home, always out drinking. They’re neighbours, everyone sees it. Two, three days gone, sometimes a whole week. And when he does crawl back, he shouts at his wife like the whole street should hear it.”
“Mum, that’s just gossip,” Emma argued. “Even if some of it’s true, Paul isn’t his dad. He’s different. We’re happy.”
“Darling, I warned you. Don’t rush. You’ve got time.”
“I *don’t*,” Emma snapped, turning away.
“Emma… you’re not—” Margaret gasped.
“Yes, Mum. That’s why we’re getting married.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Margaret muttered. “I *thought* you were craving pickles, but I put it down to springtime cravings… What were you *thinking*? You’re tying yourself down so young!”
“Mum, enough. What’s done is done. Start planning the wedding.”
“And where will you live?”
“Here. With you. You’re the one who said his dad’s hopeless.”
Margaret sighed. “Of course you can stay. I’ll help however I can. But I don’t trust Paul.”
The wedding was small—both families lived on modest salaries. Emma had her son, Thomas, and stayed home with him. Paul clashed with Margaret immediately, never bothering to get along.
“Why’s your mum always up at the crack of dawn?” he’d grumble. “It’s my day off!”
“She’s making sure you don’t starve,” Emma shot back. “You roll out of bed, and breakfast is ready. She’s trying to help—Thomas barely sleeps, and neither do I.”
“That kid’s always whining. At home, Dad’s shouting drunk, here your mum’s banging pans at sunrise… What kind of life is this?”
“What did you *expect*?”
“I expected *peace*,” Paul snapped.
And then he started coming home late.
“Where’ve you been?” Emma demanded.
“Working. Or out with the lads. What’s it to you?”
Three years in, she found out about the other woman—someone older from his work, where things were “quiet and easy.” Emma kicked him out and filed for divorce.
The betrayal stung. “Three years, and he’s already cheating? What next?”
“I *told* you,” Margaret said. “But you wouldn’t listen.”
“Mum, spare me the lecture. I *get* it,” Emma muttered.
Margaret helped with Thomas—school runs, babysitting—while Emma worked. Ten years passed, and she never dated. She didn’t trust men anymore.
Then her colleague Sophie invited her to a birthday party. The café was packed, laughter everywhere. A man approached her.
“William,” he said with a slight bow, offering his hand. “Dance?”
“You must work with Sophie,” he smiled. “I’d have remembered you otherwise.”
They talked all night. William was 12 years older, never married—quiet, kind, well-read. He walked her home.
They started seeing each other. Emma was 34 then. One evening, he handed her flowers.
“Emma, marry me. I’ve no experience with marriage, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”
She said yes—after introducing him to Margaret and Thomas.
“Well?” she asked her mum after he left.
“He’s polite, steady. Older, but that’s no bad thing. Owns his flat, has a car—solid bloke.”
Marrying William was nothing like her first marriage. Some days, she forgot she’d ever been married before. Only Thomas reminded her. She’d hurry home from work, giddy. William worked in construction.
At 38, she realised she was pregnant.
“Will, what do we do? Thomas is nearly grown!”
“We have the baby,” he laughed. “I ought to leave *some* mark on the world—even if it’s just a son or daughter.”
Daniel was born. William adored him—bathing him, feeding him, getting up at night so Emma could sleep.
Years passed. Daniel grew. Thomas finished school (there was a big age gap, but they got on). William even encouraged Thomas to go to *his* old university.
Thomas married young. His wife, Lucy, kept Emma at arm’s length. No matter how hard Emma tried, Lucy stayed cold.
“Don’t let it bother you,” William soothed. “As long as *he’s* happy. They’ve got their own place.”
Emma tried, but it hurt. Then life changed. On holiday by the sea, William collapsed.
“Too much sun,” he insisted.
Back home, it happened again—at work this time. Ambulance. Hospital. Tests.
The doctor pulled Emma aside. “It’s a brain tumour. Inoperable. We haven’t told him.”
Her world dropped away.
*Why do the good ones…?*
William guessed soon enough. The last months were hard. After the funeral, Daniel kept her going. Thomas had his own life.
At 54, she never thought she’d love again. Then, on a crisp September evening, she bumped into a silver-haired man in the park.
“Sorry! I wasn’t looking.”
“Neither was I,” he chuckled. “Happens to the best of us.”
Oliver was 58, an architect. They walked, talked—met again the next day. He’d lost his wife six years prior. Soon, he asked her to marry him.
Emma told Thomas over the phone.
“Mum, it’s your life.”
Then Lucy’s voice cut in—speakerphone on.
“What are you *doing*?” she shrieked. “You’re nearly *pension* age! What kind of ‘love’ is that at 54?”
“*Lucy*,” Emma said calmly, “when *you’re* my age, you’ll realise you still feel 30 inside. And I *deserve* love.”
“Oh, *please*,” Lucy scoffed. “Next you’ll say he’s not after your flat!”
“Lucy, I’m *not* dead yet. And my flat’s *my* business.”
Lucy refused to come to the registry office. Thomas came alone, flowers in hand.
Emma didn’t care. She *was* happy. But it stung—being called “old” at 54. As if love had an expiry date.
With Oliver, though, she knew—some things only get better with time.
