Im not going to spend my life with an old crumbling wreck, my husband barked.
Thats it! Enough! With a violent swing, Roger slammed shut the bedside drawer. The aftershave bottles rattled. Im sick of hearing about aching joints and pills! I want to live, not rot away in this hospital ward!
Fiona stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching as her husband stuffed his meagre possessions into a small holdall. Thirty-two years of marriage fit neatly into a single rucksack and a carrier with trainers. That realisation hurt sharper than any argument.
Roger, she began softly, Mum cant be left alone after her stroke. You know that, dont you?
Your mum is your problem! Im not spending my days with an old invalid! he snapped, eyes glued to his bag. Im fifty-eight, not eighty! I dont want our house to become a care home.
Fiona flinched. For the last six months, youth and old age had been constant battlegrounds. Roger had started dyeing his grey hair, bought a bicycle, and acquired a leather jacket. Then came Louise the newly divorced thirty-five-year-old from downstairs.
Youre moving in with her? Fiona already knew the answer but needed to ask.
Roger spun round. There was a fleeting look of shame in his eyes that quickly hardened.
Yes, I am. And do you know why? Because with her, I forget about my age. She doesnt count my grey hairs or remind me about my dodgy heart. Shes just free. Thats what matters.
Free. The word pierced right through her chest. Fiona glanced at her reflection a tired face, new lines etched by her mouth. There was a time Roger had called her his beauty. Now
Youll be sixty soon, Roger, she whispered. Do you really think
What? he retorted sharply. That I dont deserve to be happy? Or get a fresh start? Loads of blokes my age
Run off with younger women? she finished wryly, a bitter smile crossing her lips. Yes, sad but true.
Roger waved her off, irritation gathering.
There you go again! You always drag everything down. I just want to breathe, Fiona! Properly!
He yanked the zipper closed; the sound was final.
Tell your mum I wish her well, he grumbled, heading for the door. I hope youll be cosy. The two of you. He hesitated, but finished: Two old mates.
The door slammed. Fiona sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, staring into space. Two old mates rang through her mind. Fifty-three wasnt old, was it?
A frail voice floated from the next room.
Fi? Has something happened?
Nothing, Mum, Fiona managed to reply, dragging herself up. Rogers gone out. On business.
She hated the lie, but the truth was unthinkable. The last thing she needed was for her eighty-something mother to blame herself for the ruin of her daughters marriage.
The days lumbered by like a dull river. Fiona kept up the old routines: cooking, cleaning, caring for her mum. But the same thought circled her mind: When? When did she stop noticing the wall growing between them?
She remembered meeting Louise. The neighbour had recently divorced, and Fiona had often bumped into her by the post boxes downstairs. Bright, vibrant, always in flashy dresses and laughing. Fiona had even felt sorry for her raising a child alone, must be tough.
Then she noticed Rogers gaze linger on Louise. How hed wait by the window as she walked her dog, find reasons to be outside when she came home, how hed started spending longer hours in the garage.
Darling, her mums voice snapped her back to reality, youve been standing with that mug at the sink for half an hour. Sit down.
Fiona looked and realisedit was true. Shed been staring with a lonely mug in her hands, gazing out the window.
Almost done, Mum.
Fi, her mum settled onto a chair, gripping its back. I know whats going on. No need to fib to me.
Mum
Hes left you, hasnt he? Run off with that one from downstairs?
Fiona nodded, eyes prickling with tears.
What an idiot, her mum remarked, almost philosophically. Do you know what happens to men when theyre near sixty? Its like theyre possessedall desperate to recapture a youth they never really had.
Mum, stop.
Why should I stop? her mum laughed, quite unexpectedly. Your father lost the plot at fifty-two, did the same thingconvinced life was leaving him behind.
Fiona stared in disbelief.
Dad? You never
What wouldve been the point? Her mum shrugged. He crawled back after two months, tail between his legs. I didnt wait for him, though.
No!
Yes, her mum winked. In those two months, I realised life wasnt over. Took up tapestry classes. Actually, found it easier without him. Felt like I could finally breathe.
She paused, examining her wise, wrinkled handsspotted but still deft.
See, Fiona, years dont mean all that much. Its about whats inside. Im eighty-five, and the same wild girls still in here.
Fiona smiled. It was trueher mum radiated a quiet strength and joy, undimmed by age or ailments. People were drawn to her.
And Roger, her mum added, he isnt running from you. Hes running from himselffrom the fear of getting old. Thinks having a younger woman will make him younger.
Youre defending him? Hurt welled up.
No, not a bit. Mum shook her head. I feel sorry for him. He wont find what hes looking for. You cant run from time, darling. It catches up with us all.
Just then, laughter drifted in from the street. Fiona glanced outsideRoger and Louise strolled in the sun; he carried her bags, she chattered animatedly, and he gazed at her with an eager smile that twisted Fionas heart.
Dont torment yourself, her mum gently moved her from the window. Lets have tea. Ive made ginger biscuits.
Mum, biscuits? Fionas voice wobbled.
Hes a fool, she repeated patiently. But thats his road. You find yours. Tomorrow, were going to the park. Theyve done it up beautifully after the refurb.
Fiona wanted to protest that she wasnt in the mood, but something in her mothers voice had her pause. What if she was right? Was it time to live, not just survive?
The park surprised her fresh paths, gleaming fountain, inviting benches. At its heart was a small community centre where music played.
Look at this, Mum paused at a noticeboard, literature club signup. And a dance studio. Oh yoga for mature adults!
Mum, Fiona groaned, don’t say
Why not? Mum raised her brow mischievously. At my age, I can still show you a thing or two!
To prove it, she swept her hand out gracefully; her walking stick tumbled to the floor.
Oh! Mum blushed.
Allow me, a kindly male voice said.
A well-dressed, middle-aged man picked up the stick and gave Mum a gentle bow.
My pleasure.
Thank you, she murmured, newly flushed.
Im Michael Bennett, he introduced himself. I run the literature meetings here. I see youre interested?
Were just Fiona began, but Mum cut her off with gusto.
Absolutely! My daughter writes lovely poetry. Was published in her universitys paper back in the day.
Mum! Fiona stammered. That was ages ago.
Poetry is timeless, Michael smiled softly. Youre welcome to come inour meeting is just starting. Were reading new works tonight.
And so Fiona found herself in a writers group. She only meant to support her mum, yet she was swept alongbook scent, gentle voices, eager faces. No talk of appearances or age; only feelings and thoughts mattered.
Then came Poetry Night. Just a small gathering, but Fiona was as nervous as for an exam.
She stood and read her versesabout love, loss, and how life doesnt end with pain. And with every line, she felt things inside begin to loosen, expand, come alive again.
Walking home later, she bumped into Roger. He was alone. He lingered awkwardly, like a guilty child.
Fi you look wonderful.
She watched him, surprised. Oddly, seeing those familiar brown eyes, there was no ache. Just quiet relief.
Thank you, she replied evenly. Is that all?
No, waitplease, he moved closer. I need to explain I realise now
That youre disappointed? She raised an eyebrow. Or Louise isnt all youd hoped?
He winced.
Its not that. Shes younger, yes, attractive, yes, but with her, theres nothing to talk about.
Did you think thirty-five-year-olds were fans of Classic FM? Fiona laughed unexpectedly. Roger, you really are naive.
Its not her, he frowned. Its me. Ive made a mess of things. Maybe
No, Fiona cut him off gently but firmly. Nothing maybe anymore. In fact, Im grateful.
For what? He blinked in confusion.
For leaving. For making me see life isnt just about dusting and cooking.
Fi, I get it now. I want to come home. He reached for her hand.
She stepped back, kind but resolute.
No, Roger. You dont want to come home, because home doesnt exist anymore. The Fiona who ironed your shirts and kept quiet at dinner is gone. The new one? You dont know her, and frankly, she might frighten you.
Why?
Because now she lives for herself.
Just then, Mum approached, arm-in-arm with Michael Bennett, leaving her stick behind.
Oh hello, Roger, she said coolly. Are you still about?
Good evening, Mrs Palmer, he muttered. Im going.
Good, she nodded. Just remember: next time you want to run away from growing old, maybe ask yourself if the problems not with those around you.
Roger flinched, stung. He turned on his heel and left.
Mum! Fiona sighed. You didnt need
Why not say whats true? Mum shrugged. By the way, Michaels invited me to run a Stories from our Childhood group for the grandkids. Imagine!
Mrs Palmer is a natural storyteller, Michael chimed in. The children will love her.
Fiona watched her mumradiant, eyes brightand wondered: maybe wisdom isnt about fighting our years, but embracing them as a gift? A chance to discover new parts of ourselves?
Two months later, Roger split with Louiseapparently, she met someone younger still. A month after that, he sent Fiona a muddled, regretful message asking her to forgive him. She didnt reply.
Why would she? She has her own life nowtwice a week at the writers group. And you know what? At fifty-three, she feels younger than she has in years. Because youth isnt about smooth skinits about daring to be yourself, at any age.
Todays lesson? Don’t let fear of getting older steal your futuresometimes, the next chapter is the best one yet.
