I have been married three times, each time striving to become the perfect wife: now I fear being alone in my twilight years.
I’ve tied my fate in marriage thrice, and each time I poured my heart into being an exemplary wife—caring, patient, willing to sacrifice for loved ones. Yet three attempts to find happiness ended in bitter disappointment, leaving me tormented by the fear: what if I face my old age with emptiness and loneliness?
My first husband, Jonathan, departed, hurling cruel words at me: “I’m fed up with you.” He was tired of me, our children, my care, and my efforts. “You’re boring,” he said with disdain. “All you know is cooking Sunday roasts.” Back then, I believed that was the essence of a woman’s happiness: being a homemaker, a mother, a support for her husband. I had no idea how to keep him, what to do to make him stay. And so I found myself alone—with two little ones to care for, feeling lost and crushed.
My second husband, Michael, entered my life when I had hoped things would be different. I learned from my mistakes: tried to be wiser, demanded less, forgave more. But fate struck again: we were catastrophically short on money, both of us working tirelessly, and then I fell ill. Not terminally, but seriously enough to need support. That’s when I saw his true colors. He didn’t shout or create scenes—he simply packed up and left for someone else. A sick wife, three kids—why would he want such a burden? He slipped out of my life as quietly as a shadow at night, leaving me to struggle alone.
My third husband, Robert, was a real test for me. We met in a small town near Birmingham, and he was a nobody—broken, lost, with no purpose. I quite literally pulled him out of the abyss: helped him get back on his feet, gave half my earnings, supported his dreams. I dragged him forward as a barge hauler pulls against the current, sparing no effort. He did nothing for me—not a single kind gesture, not a drop of gratitude. But I convinced myself: a man is the head of the family, and I must support him, even if it means bearing the entire burden. Recently, he looked at me with cold eyes and delivered his verdict: “You’ve let yourself go. Old and unkempt.”
He’s only three years younger than I am, yet he sees himself as young and vibrant while viewing me as a nearly broken shell, unworthy of attention. And this is coming from the person I financially supported, fed, and helped rise up for years! Rage consumed me. I could no longer endure it: I stopped giving him money, and he immediately called me selfish, listing all my “flaws,” as if I was obliged to him until the end of my days. His words cut like knives but opened my eyes: I no longer wish to live for someone who doesn’t appreciate me.
Here I stand at a crossroads, in my forties, with a broken heart and empty hands. For so many years, I poured my soul into these relationships, gave so much effort to make them better, and what do I have to show for it? Emptiness. I’m terrified to even think of the future. Who needs me now? Older women aren’t loved—or am I mistaken? These thoughts gnaw at me like a cold autumn wind at night, and I don’t know where to find answers. Three times I tried to build a family, three times I got burned, and now the fear of loneliness knocks louder on my door. Is this my fate? Am I destined to be alone, watching life pass me by?
