On the day I turned thirty, I finally managed to buy myself a two-bedroom flat in London. I live there on my own, and up to now, I havent found a partnernot a husband, nor even a close prospect. You know what I think is the root of my troubles in finding love? Its precisely because I own a flat. Nowadays, it seems impossible for a woman to be both independent and feminine at the same time. Id say all my suitors fall into two clear camps:
First, there are those who, upon hearing I have my own place, think its brilliant and suggest moving in straight awayno fuss, no effort from their part. These men arent interested in striving for anything more; as far as theyre concerned, their life is sorted. Weve solved the housing situation, he doesnt need to save for a car as Ive got one already, and if it comes to starting a family, hes happy enough as long as nothing in his routine is disrupted. He has no desire to build a career or earn more; hes content to just coast along, happy with what Ive provided.
Whenever I talk with men like this, I feel like theyd be more suited as my sons than as my husbands. Its as if Id have to look after them, spoil them, keep them happy, and then constantly worry theyll wander off. I cant imagine calling such an arrangement happiness. Frankly, Id rather enjoy the companionship of a cat and focus my time and energy on what I love.
The other camp hears about my flat and decides theyd prefer to keep living with their parents, or maybe escape to the countryside. The suggestion is that we should sell my flat, buy one together, start afresh. Thats their favourite scenario. Never mind the years Ive spent securing a roof over my headthey see the prospect of moving to a new mortgage as perfectly reasonable, with the expectation that Ill handle that as well. If only my future husband would be willing to pay the mortgage himselfbut of course, he wont. Apparently, since Ive got a decent salary, Ill keep making the payments, and hell help as and when he can. What if I go on maternity leave? Doesnt matter. The plan seems to be: I carry on paying until we eventually clear the mortgage, and thenperhaps, if he allows itI might be permitted to have a child, even if by then Id be over forty. The main thing is I shouldnt trouble my husband with my own problemshe should be left to live worry-free.
More and more, I find myself thinking it would be easier to adopt a three-year-old from an orphanage than to find a man who isnt afraid of starting a family. Even if I do get married, it seems Id still be on my own, sorting out all the difficulties alone, supporting myself, and, in the end, loving myself. So why would I need a man at all?
Right now, I am mistress of my own home and mistress of my own life. Ive done up the flat beautifully, theres plenty of space, and my hobbies fill my days. Sometimes I long for family, for that special someone by my sidebut the reality I encounter in the world crushes those dreams before they can settle. Let me tell you about one such incident that happened not long ago.
I found myself falling for a man I knew already, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. One evening he came over, and we were watching a film together in my flat when we got a craving for pizza. I thought, just this once, that he might take the initiative. He did, in a manner of speaking: on my suggestion, he met the delivery man at the lift and paid for the pizzawith the exact cash Id handed him. That was the extent of his effort or involvement. Afterwards, there was nothing left between usno spark, no conversation, no warmth whatsoever.
Maybe the fault is mine. My friends say I shouldnt have offered to pay for the pizza. I suppose I was testing him, wondering if hed accept the money or refuse it. The sum itself didnt matter; what mattered was something else entirely. Its not about the money at allSince then, Ive given up on second-guessing myself. These days, when I wake up to sunshine streaming through my own curtains, I feel lighter. The silence of my flatonce achingly emptynow feels spacious, like Ive stretched out into it, claimed every corner. Ive started inviting friends over for wine and chess, and sometimes, on Saturday mornings, I host a breakfast club just for the sheer joy of laughter echoing off my walls. My parents say I seem happier lately, and perhaps I am.
Still, when evening falls and I stand at my window watching lights blink on across the city, I sometimes wonder who else might be out there, building their own lives, not waiting to be rescued or rescued from, but searching for a companionwith spark and conversation and warmth to give. If he arrives, Ill welcome him, but until then, Ive decided to live all the chapters of my life, not just bookmark the pages in hope.
And who knows? Maybe love isnt something to be hunted or managed, like a mortgage or a takeaway order. Maybe its what you discover in between sips of morning coffee, in the quiet certainty that you belong exactly where you arewith or without a partner by your side. That knowledge, at last, feels like happiness to me: not settling, not surrendering, but simply choosingevery dayto be mistress of my own story.
