I’m not spending my twilight years with an old wreck, snapped my husband.
“Enough is enough!” Clive slammed the bedside drawer shut, sending the bottles of aftershave rattling. “I’m sick of hearing about aching joints and endless pills! I want to live, not just exist in this bloody infirmary!”
I stood in the doorway watching Clive stuff his few belongings into a battered backpack. Thirty-two years of marriage fitted into a single rucksack and a bag of trainers. That thought hurt more than all the rows put together.
“Clive,” I began quietly, “my mum can’t be left alone after her stroke. You do understand, don’t you?”
“She’s your responsibility, not mine! I’m not spending my twilight years with an old wreck,” he barked, not meeting my eyes. “I’m fifty-eight, not eighty! I refuse to turn this house into a hospital ward.”
I flinched. For the past six months, words like “youth” and “old age” had become stumbling blocks for us. Clive had begun dyeing his hair, bought himself a mountain bike and a leather jacket. And then there was Rachelour thirty-five-year-old divorced neighbour from the fifth floor.
“Are you moving in with her?” I already knew the answer but asked anyway.
Clive turned sharply. Something like shame flickered in his eyes before stubbornness returned. “Yes, I am. And do you know why? Because when I’m with her, I forget my age. She doesn’t count my grey hairs or remind me about my dodgy heart. She’s just free. Get it?”
“Free.” The word cut straight to my heart. I glanced in the mirror at my tired face, the new lines around my mouth. Once, Clive called me his beauty. Now…
“Youll be sixty soon, Clive,” I whispered. “Do you really believe”
“What?” He snapped. “That I dont deserve happiness? A fresh start? For your informationat my age, a lot of men”
“Run off with younger girlfriends?” I couldnt help the bitter laugh. “Yes. Sadly, youre not the first.”
Clive waved a hand, dismissing me. “There you go againdragging everything through the mud! I just want to breathe, Catherine. Is that so hard to understand?”
He zipped up his rucksack. The sound felt final.
“Say hello to your mum for me,” he muttered, heading to the door. “I hope you two enjoy yourselves. You knowtwo old friends.”
The door slammed. I sat on the bed, staring at nothing, the words “two old friends” ringing in my mind. Was this old age? I was only fifty-three!
Mums voice drifted from the living room: “Cathy? Has something happened?”
“Its nothing, Mum,” I managed, forcing myself up. “Clives gone out. On business.”
It felt foul to lie, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. The last thing I needed was for my eighty-year-old mother to blame herself for my marriage falling apart.
Days blurred into grey routines: cooking, cleaning, caring for Mum. But I couldn’t escape the thoughtwhen? When had that wall grown between us?
I remembered meeting Rachel. Shed split with her husband recently, and we often met at the postbox. Lively, boldalways something bright on and a cheeky laugh. Id even felt sorry for herraising a child alone couldnt be easy.
Then Id started to notice Clive watching her as she walked the dog. Hanging by the window, lingering outside when she arrived home, spending hours out in the garage.
“Daughter,” Mums voice jolted me back, “youve been scrubbing that cup for half an hour. Come and sit with me.”
I came tostanding at the sink staring out of the window, mug still in hand.
“Just finishing up, Mum.”
Mum eased herself onto a chair, clutching the back for support. “Cathy, love, I know whats going on. Dont lie to me.”
“Mum?”
“Hes left you, hasnt he? Gone off with that woman on the fifth floor?”
I nodded, tears welling.
“Foolish man,” Mum said philosophically. “Men near sixtysomething comes over them, chasing after youth where there never was any.”
“Mumplease.”
“No, listen,” she laughed suddenlya clear, ringing sound. “Your father did exactly the same at fifty-two. Thought life was passing him by.”
I stared. “Dad? You never told me”
“Why would I?” She shrugged. “He came crawling back two months later. By then Id stopped waiting.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she winked. “During those two months, I realised life wasnt overI started embroidery classes. Turns out, its easier alone sometimes. More air to breathe.”
She held her hands out in frontthe age spots, paper-thin skin, but still nimble.
“Years arent the main thing, Cathy. Its whats in your heart. Im eighty-five and still a girl inside.”
I smiled. It was trueher spirit had never dulled, despite her frailty. People always gravitated towards Mum.
“Your Clive,” she went on, “isnt running from you. Hes running from himselffrom the fear of growing old. Thinks a younger woman will turn back time.”
“Defending him?” I said, a hot prickle of resentment.
“Not at all,” she shook her head. “I feel sorry for him. Hell never find what hes looking for. Time catches us all, my love.”
Laughter floated in from outside. Automatically, I looked out: Clive and Rachel were strolling through the courtyard, her arm swinging, Clive carrying her bags, listening spellbound. My heart clenched.
“Dont torture yourself,” Mum gently led me from the window. “Lets have a cup of tea. I made some honey biscuits.”
“Mum, Im not hungry,” my voice trembled.
“Hes a foolish man,” Mum repeated patiently. “But thats his journey. You need to find yours. And you know what? Lets walk in the park tomorrow. Its lovely since the renovations.”
I wanted to say I wasn’t in the moodbut something in her tone made me stay silent. Perhaps she was right. Maybe it was time to just live.
The park surprised me. New paths, fountains, comfy benches. At the centre was a little community arts hub, music spilling out.
“Look here,” Mum paused at a noticeboard. “Literary club. Dance classes. Ohyoga for mature ages!”
“Mum,” I groaned, “Dont even joke”
“Why not?” Mum arched an eyebrow playfully. “I can still show you a thing or two!”
She waved an arm in a dramatic flourishher walking stick clattered to the ground.
“Oh dear,” she blushed, embarrassed.
“Allow me,” came a gentle, well-spoken voice.
A distinguished man in his sixties picked up the stick and handed it back with a courteous bow.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Thank you ever so much,” Mum coloured prettily. “Thats very kind.”
“Edward Barker,” he introduced himself. “I run the poetry sessions here. Are you interested in our events?”
“We were just” I began, but Mum cut in resolutely.
“Absolutely! My daughter writes beautiful poems, published in her uni rag, you know!”
“Mum!” I went red. “That was ages ago!”
“Poetry never ages,” Edward said softly. “If youd likeyoure welcome to join todays session. Were discussing new work.”
And so I found myself swept into the literary group. I surprised myselfintending only to keep Mum company, and yet, I was drawn in by the scent of books, the quiet conversation, the focus not on appearance or age but thought and feeling.
Then came poetry nightintimate, just us. I was nervous as if facing an exam.
I read my poemsabout love, about loss, about how life goes on beyond pain. And with every verse, I felt something inside release, unfurl, come alive.
Walking home, I bumped into Clive outside our block. Hed just parted from Rachel, shuffling awkwardly.
“Cathy, you look wonderful.”
I looked at him, wondering at the lack of old painjust a calm weariness.
“Thank you,” I replied evenly. “Is that all?”
“Nolisten,” he stepped closer. “I wanted to sayI was wrong.”
“Disappointed? Rachel isnt perfect?”
He grimaced. “Youre missing the point. Shes young, pretty, yesbut theres nothing to talk about.”
“You thought thirty-somethings care about classic British films and gardening shows?” I laughed, unexpectedly. “Clive, youre naïve, truly.”
“Its not that,” he frowned. “Ive made a mess of things. Maybe”
“No,” I shook my head firmly. “Theres no maybe. In fact, Im grateful, you know.”
“Grateful? For what?”
“For leaving. For making me realise life is more than housework and silent meals.”
“Cathy, I get it now. I want to come homewe can fix this”
I gently stepped away.
“No, Clive. You dont want our old homebecause she doesnt exist anymore. The Cathy who ironed your socks and kept quiet is gone. The new meyou wouldnt recognise. And honestly, youd probably be afraid.”
“Why?”
“Because I live for myself now.”
At that moment, Mum came upwithout her stick, her arm looped confidently through Edwards.
“Oh, Clive,” she said, frostily surveying her former son-in-law. “Still hanging around?”
“Hello, Mrs. Turner,” he mumbled. “I was just leaving.”
“Good,” she nodded sharply. “And next time you feel like running from old ageperhaps consider: maybe the issue isnt other people?”
Clive winced as though stung, turned abruptly, and walked away.
“Mum!” I protested. “You didnt have to”
“No need to spare him,” she shrugged. “Edwards invited me to lead a Tales from Our Childhood club for local grandkids. Sounds fun, doesnt it?”
“Mrs. Turner would be a wonderful storyteller,” Edward smiled. “The children will love it.”
Watching Mumher complexion brighter, her eyes livelyI wondered: Could wisdom be acceptance? Not fighting age, but embracing it as an opportunity? To discover something new within?
Two months later Clive parted ways with Rachelrumour had it, she found someone younger. Another month after, he messaged me: a jumbled, regretful apology, pleading for forgiveness. I didnt reply.
Why would I? I have my life now. Twice a week at the poetry club. And you know what? At fifty-three, for the first time in years, I truly feel young again. Because youth isnt smooth skin. Its the courage to be yourselfat any age.
