**The Right to Love**
Lately, I’ve been wondering why my family doesn’t understand me—though truthfully, I’ve never been happier. Instead of being pleased for me, they whisper behind my back, spinning tales to mutual friends.
My name is Evelyn. I’m fifty-four, still presentable, working in a large team where I’m respected. I’ve been there years, mentoring younger colleagues, always friendly. Life hasn’t always been kind. My first marriage was a mistake. Even my mother warned me.
“Daughter, listen—don’t marry Peter. He’ll never make a proper husband. Look at his father! Never home, never dependable. We’ve known them for years—three days gone, sometimes a week. And when he *does* return, he shouts the street down, humiliating his wife. Like father, like son.”
“Mum, that’s just gossip,” I argued. “Peter isn’t his dad. We’re happy.”
“I warned you. There’s no rush.”
“There *is*,” I snapped, turning to the window.
“Oh lord—you’re pregnant!”
“Yes. So I’m marrying him.”
Mum clucked her tongue. “I thought you were just craving pickles! You’re so young—why tie yourself down?”
“Enough. Just help me plan the wedding.”
“And where will you live?”
“Here, with you. You *said* his father’s hopeless.”
She sighed. “Fine. But I’ve a bad feeling about that boy.”
The wedding was modest—neither family had spare cash. Our son, Oliver, arrived soon after. Peter and Mum clashed immediately. He hated her bustling about at dawn.
“Why’s your mother up so early? It’s Sunday!”
“So *you* have hot breakfast waiting. She pities me—Oliver keeps me up all night.”
“Kid’s fussy. Just like home—Dad drunk and shouting, your mum clattering pans, the baby wailing. Is this life?”
“What did you expect?”
“Peace,” he muttered.
He started coming home late. “Where were you?”
“Work. Sometimes the lads after.”
Three years in, I learned he’d been seeing an older colleague—quiet, *peaceful*, they said. I threw him out, divorced him. Betrayal crushed me.
“Mum warned you,” she said.
“Spare me the lecture. I *know*.”
She helped with Oliver—school runs, babysitting. I worked. A decade passed; I trusted no man. Then my colleague Sarah invited me to her birthday at a pub. A man approached—Michael, twelve years my senior, never married. Polite, well-read, kind. We danced all evening. He walked me home.
We began seeing each other. At thirty-four, I felt alive again. One day, over flowers, he said, “Let’s marry. I’ve no experience, but… better late than never?”
I agreed after introducing him to Mum and Oliver.
“Well?” I asked later.
“Respectable. Steady job, owns his flat. A bit older—but that’s no bad thing.”
Marrying Michael was bliss. Work felt lighter; I *flew* home. He adored Oliver, and at thirty-eight, I was pregnant again.
“What’ll we do? Oliver’s nearly grown!”
“Have it, of course!” he laughed. “Let me leave *some* mark on the world.”
We had William. Michael was a doting father—bathing, feeding him, letting me rest.
Years passed. Oliver married—his wife, Claire, kept me at arm’s length. Hurt, but Michael soothed, “As long as *he’s* happy.”
Then disaster. On holiday, Michael collapsed. “Just the heat,” he insisted. But back home, it happened again. Hospital tests followed.
The doctor’s words gutted me: “A brain tumour. Inoperable.”
I told Michael eventually. He faded slowly. After the funeral, William and I leaned on each other. Oliver had his own life.
At fifty-four, I thought love was done. Then, walking through Hyde Park one autumn evening, I bumped into a silver-haired man—Robert.
“Sorry! Miles away,” I said.
“No harm done,” he smiled.
We talked for hours. He’d lost his wife six years prior. Soon, he met me after work daily.
When he proposed, I told Oliver.
“Your choice, Mum,” he said—until Claire screeched through the speaker, “*Fifty-four?* Acting like a lovesick girl! And your flat—he’ll snatch it!”
“Claire,” I said coolly, “I’ve decades left. And my flat is *mine*.”
She boycotted the registry. Oliver came alone, with roses.
It stung—being dismissed as *old*. But Robert’s love proved her wrong.
**Lesson:** Age doesn’t erase the heart’s right to joy. Those who mock haven’t lived enough to understand.
