I married the widower next door, who was eightytwo, just to keep the council from shoving him into a care home.
Are you out of your mind? my sister, Claire, nearly spilled her tea when I told her.
First, hes eightytwo, not eightytwo years old, I replied as calmly as I could. And second let me finish.
It all began when I overheard his children arguing beneath his kitchen window. They turned up twice a yearjust long enough to make sure their father was still breathingthen vanished again. This time theyd brought glossy brochures for residential homes.
Dad, youre eightytwo. You cant live alone.
Its eightytwo years, not eightytwo ailments, Arthur Whitfield snapped, his voice hoarse yet warm. I cook for myself, I still go to the market, and I even bingewatch dramas without a nap. Im fine!
That evening he knocked on my door, a bottle of red wine in hand, looking like a man on the brink of a desperate, crucial confession.
I need a favour a bit odd.
Two glasses later, that odd favour turned into a proposal of marriage.
Just on paper, he explained, If Im officially married, my kids will find it harder to whisk me away to somewhere they can keep an eye on me.
I stared into his blue eyes, still flickering with mischief and stubbornness, and thought of my lonely evenings: an empty flat, the telly murmuring in the silence, a solo cup of tea cooling on the kitchen counter.
He was the only one who asked me each day how I was really doing.
Whats in it for me? I asked.
Half the bills, a Sunday roast, and someone who cares enough for me to come home.
Three weeks later we stood at the register office. I wore a dress that looked like it had been rescued from a thrift shop at dawn. He was in a threadbare suit that smelled of mothballs and old memories. Our witnesses were the kiosk shopkeeper and her husband, who struggled to keep from bursting into laughter.
May you kiss the bride.
He planted a kiss on my cheek so loudly it seemed to crack an envelope.
From then on everything fell into an oddly smooth rhythm: he rose at six, performed his legendary five pushups, I drank yesterdays brew and stayed up late after work.
This isnt coffee, its torture, he grumbled.
And your exercises are a parody of sport, I retorted.
Sundays filled the house with the aroma of a slowcooked stew and laughter. He talked about his late wife, the love of his life, and about his children who now saw him more as a problem than a father.
Then, one afternoon, those very children stormed in, accusations flying.
Shes using you!
I can hear you perfectly! Arthur shouted from the kitchen, And by the way, your tea is terrible!
Why this marriage? his daughter asked, her gaze cold as winter.
I looked at the spot where he was humming while pouring me a cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to share Sunday meals with, someone to hear me say Im home, someone who smiles at my jokes. Is that a crime?
The door slammed shut, sealing their argument in a final thud.
He brought two mugs to the table.
They think Ive lost my mind.
Theyre not wrong, I smiled.
Youre mad too.
Exactly why were perfect together.
Your tea is still poison.
And your pushups are cartoons.
But were family.
We clinked our mugs against the setting sun, a portrait of a love that was false to everyone else but true to us.
Six months later nothing had changed: he still rose too early, I still ruined the brew, and Sundays still smelled of stew and happiness.
Do you ever regret it?
Not a single second, I answer every time.
Let them call our marriage a sham. To me, its the most genuine thing thats ever happened in my life.
