My name is Helen Williamson. I was born and raised my entire life in the countryside of Yorkshire. I am now 61, but, believe me, I have never felt so free and truly alive. Just seven years ago, I thought my life was over—nothing ahead but gardening, medicine, and old age. But I was mistaken. I want to share my story with you—perhaps it will be a revelation for someone out there.
I got married when I was 22. He seemed reliable: didn’t drink or smoke, was handy around the house, and hardworking. All seemed sensible. I had three children—two sons and a daughter. My youngest, John, was born when I was 37. The age gap between him and the older ones was quite significant. I had to relearn how to be a mother—not as young, often tired, but still loving. I was always there: without any bad habits, patient, calm. I lived for my children. I worked hard, tried my best, but allowed myself very little. Everything was for the family, for comfort, for household needs. I never went anywhere, didn’t take vacations, despite my dreams. In my dreams, I wandered the streets of London, which I had never actually visited.
Before marriage, my life was vibrant. I travelled around the country with friends, was a lively young woman. And then… then began the “life by the book.” He wasn’t a bad person. No, he didn’t drink, brought his earnings home, never got into arguments. But he was empty. Listless. Always buried in his hunting hobby. He had three purebred beagles, dozens of guns, tents, radios, knives, and all sorts of gear—for the woods. And me? I couldn’t even get a pet cat. He hated cats, just as he did many things I loved.
When I turned 55, the children had moved out and there weren’t any grandchildren yet. For the first time in many years, it was just me and this indifferent, silent man. I looked at him and understood: I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want to be just a piece of furniture in his life. I didn’t want to die never knowing the feeling of freedom.
In September, upon my retirement, I approached him with a proposal: a divorce. No drama. I would give him half of our three-bedroom house, the car, the garage, the garden lot, and all his hunting dogs and gear. I only asked for one thing—a two-bedroom flat in the next borough over. He agreed without a word. By then, nothing was left between us. No words, no glances, no connection.
In November, I moved. With just one suitcase. No furniture, no crockery, no familiar walls. I opened the door to my new home, sat on the floor, and cried. Not out of sadness, but from happiness. For the first time in many years, I breathed freely.
Gradually, I made the place my own. I replaced the windows, doors, and pipes. Slowly, I renovated. I bought simple yet cozy furniture. I got two cats—Sphynx breeds. I named them Alice and Lizzie. For the first time in decades, I did what I wanted.
Six years have passed. In that time, I’ve visited the coasts of Devon and Cornwall, and cities like York, Bath, and Edinburgh. I attend theatres, art exhibits, and museums. I swim, bake pies, and knit scarves for my grandchildren. Yes, now I have grandchildren—a proud grandmother whose children visit often. We laugh, talk, and hug. We are a real family. Genuine, warm, without fear of being unheard.
Sometimes my ex-husband calls. He asks how I am, says he misses me. But I forgave and let him go a long time ago. Return to him? Never. I lived in marriage for 33 years. That was enough. Now I’m alone, but not lonely. I have my favourite armchair, morning coffee by the window, my books, my cats, my friends, and a silence I’m no longer afraid of.
I will turn 61 this autumn. And I certainly don’t want to get married again. I’ve finally started living—truly, without compromise. And do you know what I’ll tell you? Life only truly begins when you dare to choose yourself for the first time.
