My name is Susan, I’m 52 years old, and I’m aware that not every woman will understand my perspective. In fact, I’m certain some might criticize me, shaking their heads and asking, “How can you speak about your husband like that when you claimed to love him?” But I’m not seeking approval or sympathy. I simply wish to share what happened to me after one significant chapter of my life ended… and a new one began.
Michael and I spent exactly twenty years together. During that time, we never had children. There were numerous reasons, and honestly, we eventually stopped trying. It wasn’t a tragedy for us—we were genuinely happy as a couple. Michael was my husband, my friend, my rock. He made decisions, and I agreed. We never argued. People around us viewed us as the perfect pair. I had accepted that my destiny was to be with Michael, and I never doubted the rightness of that path.
But one day, he simply didn’t wake up. A heart attack. No warning. No chance. He was gone overnight, and I… felt like I had stopped existing. The first week was a blur: I started tasks and abandoned them, lost track of days. My heart ached unbearably. I had no idea how to live without him—everything in the house, in the world, in my mind revolved around Michael.
A friend convinced me to visit the Lake District. She knew I had always wanted to go to the mountains, but Michael considered it a “silly waste of time.” I went… and, to my disbelief, I felt relieved. Walking through the crisp snow, inhaling the cold air, I suddenly realized I felt… light. Free. As if I had finally shed something heavy.
That’s how my new life began. Every Saturday, I’d head to the hills. Alone, without a purpose, just walking and breathing. Then, I took up dancing—Latin American. Never would I have imagined twirling to samba and salsa after fifty. Gossip began: “The widow is having fun,” “not even forty days have passed, and she’s dancing!” But I stayed silent. I was genuinely grieving and still love Michael. Yet, alongside that… for the first time in my life, I felt alive.
I gave away all the jars of jam I made just for him, even though I couldn’t stand the sweet taste. I traveled to London—the city I’d dreamed of visiting all my life, which Michael dismissed as “too pretentious.” For New Year’s, I didn’t prepare roast or trifle—for the first time in twenty years. Instead, I went to a restaurant alone, dressed up, with wine and music. And it felt right.
Five years have passed since Michael’s death. In those years, I accomplished everything I once only dreamed of. I painted, I traveled, I simply sat on the balcony with a book, gazing at the city without feeling obligated to anyone for meals, care, attention. It’s as if I regained my lost self.
Everyone insists, “Susan, it’s time to remarry. You’re young, beautiful, active.” And I smile. No, I don’t wish to remarry. Not because I’m afraid of betrayal, disappointment, or pain. No. I’ve simply found what I had always been missing—inner peace. Tranquility. The simple, human happiness of living the way I want. Without looking back. Without asking for permission. Without adapting.
This doesn’t mean I didn’t love Michael. I did. And perhaps I still do. But now I understand that a woman’s life doesn’t solely revolve around love for a man. Self-respect, caring for your desires, the right to be yourself—these are what matter. If this seems like selfishness to some—so be it. As for me, the “merry widow,” I’ve finally become just a happy woman.
