I ended up moving in with a bloke Id met at a health spa in Bath. Before I could tell anyone, my daughter pinged me: Mum, I heard youve moved out. Is this a joke? I froze. Just the day before wed been chatting about a apple crumble recipe, and now her text sounded cold and accusing.
I replied that everything was fine and that wed catch up soon, but she never answered. I realised that for her it wasnt just news it felt like a scandal.
Meanwhile I was sitting at the kitchen table in his flat, the air full of fresh coffee and the scent of pine from the open balcony, while he gently held my hand. Wed only met three months earlier, but what blossomed between us was far from fleeting.
It all started over dinner at the spa when he asked, Do you think this soup is a bit salty? I looked at him, smiled, and the rest of the evening just sped ahead. We went on walks, talked late into the night, swapped phone numbers. When I got back home I thought it was just a nice little fling, but then he called and called again.
We began meeting up, first in cafés, then he invited me over to his little garden plot. There was something there Id missed for years: warmth, genuine interest, attention. Id been a widow for seven years, spending most of my time in other peoples business kids, grandkids, neighbours, doctors, pharmacies never really feeling my own emotions.
Then it hit me that I was still capable of feeling. That someone could hold me in a way that made the years, the wrinkles, the loneliness melt away. One day he said, Ive got a spare room. You can drop by for a few days, or stay longer if you like. It gave me that flutter I used to get as a young girl that warm knot in my stomach, the certainty that this was the right place. I packed quietly, didnt want any fuss, didnt want to explain myself to the kids.
For me it was a heartdecision; for them, just a whim. When my daughter stopped replying, I tried to call, but she brushed me off.
My son asked coolly, Mum, what are you doing? then added, People will talk. Youre not supposed to act like that at your age. I tried to joke, What age, love? Im only sixtysix! He didnt get it.
All they cared about was that I wasnt where I was supposed to be at home, on standby for a phone call, ready to look after the grandkids or send a bank transfer. They started sniping at me, then guilttripping: Youve always been responsible, now youre acting like a teenager! You cant just up and leave! What will people think?
I told them I dont live for other peoples opinions. After that, things only got worse. The grandkids stopped calling, I wasnt invited to my youngest grandsons birthday, and it hurt. But I didnt go back.
Here, in this tiny cottage with a fragrant garden, with a man who makes me coffee every morning and says, Morning, beautiful, I finally feel like myself again not a granny or an old woman, just me.
One evening I looked at him and asked, Do you think the kids will ever understand? He shrugged. Im not sure. But I do know youve figured yourself out, and thats what matters. I cried that night, not from sadness but from the sheer relief of finally being right.
I have no clue how this story will end. Maybe theyll come back, maybe not. One thing I know for sure is that nobody ever has the right to tell me its too late for love, that romance is only for the young.
Because I feel young right now. It isnt easy being happy when everyones against you, but its still happiness genuine, earned.
The kids have their own lives, the grandkids are growing up. Maybe one day theyll look at me not as someone who did something wrong but as a woman who dared to be herself. And if they ever ask me whether I regret anything, Ill say the only thing I regret is waiting so long. Its never too late to fall in love again.
