At 62, I look back and remember him—49 years old when he told me he loved me, while I cooked and cleaned… until I threw him out.
Years ago, I survived a bitter divorce, and though time passed, the wounds healed slowly.
My first husband was no mere disappointment—he was a leech, draining my strength, my money, and my will to live. He never worked, drank too much, vanished at night, then crept back to steal things from the house like a scavenger. And I endured it. All for my son. For Oliver. Just for him.
When he turned twelve, he came to me, looked me in the eye, and said, “Mum, why do you put up with him? Just kick him out.”
It struck me like lightning. Suddenly, everything was clear. That very night, I showed my husband the door. Not a shred of pity—only relief. Freedom. I can’t describe the joy of breathing without fear or guilt.
There were other men after. A few. Some wrote, some asked me to the pictures. But I never fell for any of them. Couldn’t. The fear—fear of getting trapped again, of becoming a maid instead of a woman.
The last four years were especially lonely. Oliver left for Canada, found work, then stayed for good. He begged me to join him, but I couldn’t. Too late to start afresh in a foreign land. I’ve lived here forty years—memories, roots, joy, and sorrow all tangled in this soil.
Then came the pandemic. Silence. No visitors, no embraces. Just four walls and me.
A friend once told me, “Find someone. To talk, to laugh with… You’re not made of stone!”
I answered, “Look at the men my age—grey, bent, pitiful. They don’t want a woman, they want a nurse. And I won’t be that. I want to be loved.”
“So find someone younger! You look wonderful, truly.”
I brushed her off. But the seed was sown.
Then something odd happened. I saw *him*.
He walked his dog every day in the square near my home. Tall, trim, always in a black coat. His name was Edward. Forty-nine. Divorced—wife gone to France, grown daughter left behind.
One word led to another. Then to coffee. Then flowers. Every day. I don’t even recall when he began staying over—until he was simply *there*.
The neighbours gasped. “What a man! Handsome as that, and with *you*, Margaret? You must be a witch!”
Of course, it pleased me. I cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, welcomed him with a smile. I remembered how it felt to be a woman.
Then one day, he said, “You ought to move more. Why not walk my dog for me?”
I frowned. “Couldn’t we go together?”
“Well… best not be seen too much. People talk…”
A cold thought pierced me—he was ashamed. Of my age. My wrinkles, my greying hair.
I looked around. He never lifted a finger at home—didn’t even put his socks in the laundry. And me? Cooking, ironing, cleaning, washing… a housemaid. Not a lover. Not a woman. Just service.
I found my voice and said, “Edward, things should be equal here. Iron your own shirts. Walk your own dog.”
He smirked. “If you wanted a younger, attractive man, you’d best act the part. Keep me happy. Otherwise, what’s in it for me?”
I stared at him like a stranger. Then, quietly, “You’ve half an hour to pack.”
“*What*? My daughter and her bloke were coming to stay!”
“Stay with *her*, then. Good luck.”
I put him out. No shouting, no scene. Just the click of the latch. Then I sat and wept.
Yes, it hurt. I felt humiliated. Alone. But not broken. I knew I’d done right. Because a man who only takes, never gives—that isn’t love. It’s parasitism.
I’m 62. My face is lined, my legs tire easily. But my soul still lives, still aches for warmth. And I still believe love’s possible. That somewhere, there’s a man who’ll want *me*—not just what I am to him.
Let him be no younger, no taller, no grander. Just *there*. Honest. Kind. Respectful.
Because a woman—even at 62—has the right not to be broken.
