I don’t want to get married—I don’t need unnecessary hassles in the twilight of my life.
I’m 56 years old. For two years now, I’ve been living with a man I love and feel at ease around. But he increasingly raises the question, “Why don’t we get married?” The more he mentions it, the more I realize I not only don’t want it—I’m afraid of it. At this stage of life, after so many storms have passed, one doesn’t dream of weddings as magical events anymore. Stability, warmth, and simplicity are the goals. Marriage brings responsibilities, bureaucracy, property rights, dissatisfaction from grown-up children, and endless “what ifs.” I’m tired of those “ifs.”
My partner’s name is Alex. He’s five years older than me. We met by chance at a wellness retreat, where I went to recuperate after a serious illness. Initially, everything was simple: long walks, late-night conversations, short trips to nearby towns, a shared sense of humor. But then real life kicked in. He moved to my three-bedroom apartment, which I inherited from my parents. My son is grown, working in London. My daughter is a student, living with me. Alex is also divorced and has two daughters from his first marriage; they both live with their mother.
We share a life together, split the chores, and enjoy weekends in the countryside, all while maintaining financial independence. He has his own pension and car. I have my apartment, a plot of land in Surrey, savings, and a car bought with my salary. Alex invests in his daughters, sometimes more than necessary. I also support my daughter but strive to teach her independence.
Everything is working well for us—no arguments, no drama. Each of us has our personal space. Yet, he insists on a marriage certificate. But I don’t want that.
Not because I don’t love him, but because I’ve been married before. It ended badly—with shouting, property disputes, court battles, and humiliation. My ex-husband tried to take the flat I had saved for over the years, playing the victim. It took years for me to learn how to trust again.
Now, Alex keeps asking, “Why don’t you want to be my wife?” He doesn’t understand. And I can’t explain without hurting him.
I don’t want my home, my efforts, my life to become a topic of division if our personalities clash. We’re not children. We aren’t going to have shared children or build a life from scratch. Everything is already built. Why ruin and remake it all?
And I also think about my children. They’ve never said anything against Alex, but I notice my daughter keeps her distance, despite being polite. My son doesn’t comment at all. I’m certain that if we were to get married, questions would arise: “What if he wants the flat now?” “What if Mom decides to transfer something to him?” Life’s already hard enough for them. I plan to sell the apartment in the future, buy a cozy one-bedroom place, and give the leftover money to my children, so they can either get a mortgage or at least rent a decent home. Getting married would complicate everything—it would become joint property.
I don’t want the hassle of paperwork, I don’t want a legal battle if things go wrong. I just want to live with the man I love, knowing he’s with me not for status, the flat, or fear of loneliness.
But recently, Alex has changed. He withdraws, becomes silent, and increasingly accuses me of not loving him. He’s becoming sensitive and sarcastic, saying I’m making calculated decisions. It hurts to hear that because I’m with him out of love and the desire to be near him. I simply don’t want marriage.
We’re not twenty-something lovers who believe a piece of paper will change something. It won’t. It’ll only add complications. At our age, love is not about weddings, rings, or shared last names. It’s about the hand that reaches out in tough times. It’s sitting quietly together, watching TV, knowing he’s there, and feeling at peace.
Somehow, Alex thinks that without the certificate, I’m not committed. But more and more, I think this might be what true maturity is—loving without contracts and obligations.
I don’t know how our story will end. Perhaps he’ll leave, offended. Or maybe he’ll come to understand. But I won’t change my stance. I’ve been through too much to lose myself in a relationship again. I want peace, respect, and inner calm—not disputes, property divisions, and a formal “husband.”
I don’t need status—I need a person. And if he doesn’t understand that, maybe he’s not the one I was waiting for.
