I’ve been married three times and each time I aimed to become the perfect wife: now I fear ending up alone in my later years.
I have tied the knot three times, and each time I poured my heart into being an exemplary spouse—caring, patient, and willing to sacrifice for those I hold dear. Yet, three attempts at happiness turned into bitter disappointment, and now I’m haunted by a fear: what if I spend my old age in emptiness and loneliness?
My first husband, John, left me with cruel words: “I’m tired of you.” He was tired of me, our kids, my care, and my efforts. “You’re boring,” he said, looking at me with disdain. “All you know is how to cook stews.” Back then, I believed that was a woman’s happiness: to be a homemaker, a mother, a pillar for her husband. I didn’t know how to keep him, what to do to make him stay. And so, I found myself alone—with two little ones in my arms, feeling lost and crushed.
My second husband, Charles, entered my life when I hoped things would be different. I learned from my past mistakes: tried to be wiser, demanded less, forgave more. But fate struck again: we had a severe shortage of money, both of us were overworked, and then I fell ill. Not fatally, but seriously enough to need support. That’s when I saw his true colors. He didn’t shout or cause a scene—he simply packed up and left for someone else. A sick wife, three kids—why would he want such a burden? He disappeared from my life as quietly as a shadow in the night, leaving me to struggle on my own.
My third husband, Peter, was a true test for me. When we met in a small town near Manchester, he was a broken, lost soul with no direction. I quite literally pulled him from the depths: helped him get back on his feet, shared half of my earnings, supported his dreams. I dragged him forward, like a barge hauler against the current, sparing no effort. He did nothing for me—not a single kind gesture, not a drop of gratitude. Yet I convinced myself: a man is the head of the family, and I must support him, even if it means bearing all the weight myself. Recently, he gave me a cold look and delivered the verdict: “You’ve let yourself go. Old, neglected.”
He’s only three years younger than me, but he sees himself as young, full of life, while I am viewed as a crumbling, unworthy wreck. And this from the man I supported and fed for years! Anger washed over me. I couldn’t tolerate it any longer: I stopped giving him money, and he immediately called me stingy, recalled all my “flaws,” as if I owed him for life. His words cut like knives but opened my eyes: I don’t want to live for someone who doesn’t appreciate me anymore.
Now I find myself at a crossroads, in my forties, with a broken heart and empty hands. So many years spent investing my soul into these relationships, so much effort to make them better, and what for? Emptiness. I’m even afraid to think about the future. Who needs me now? Aren’t older women unloved—or am I mistaken? These thoughts eat away at me like a cold wind on an autumn night, and I don’t know where to find the answer. Three times I’ve tried to build a family, three times I’ve been burned, and now the fear of loneliness knocks on my door even louder. Is this truly my fate? Will I remain alone, watching life pass by?
