I’ve been married three times, always striving to be the perfect wife. Now, I’m terrified of facing loneliness in my twilight years.
Each marriage was an investment of heart and soul, driven by a desire to be an exemplary partner—caring, patient, willing to sacrifice for loved ones. But every attempt to create happiness ended in bitter disappointment, and now I’m haunted by the fear of growing old without companionship, surrounded by emptiness.
My first husband, David, left with harsh words flung in my face: “I’m bored of you.” He was tired of me, our children, my care, my efforts. “You’re dull,” he said with disdain, “all you can do is cook stews.” Back then, I believed that was a woman’s happiness—being a homemaker, a mother, a support for her husband. I didn’t understand how to keep him from leaving, didn’t know what I could have done differently. And so there I was, alone, crushed, with two little ones to look after.
My second husband, James, came into my life when I dared to hope things might be different. I’d learned from past mistakes: aimed to be wiser, to demand less, to forgive more. Yet, fate struck again—money was tight, we both worked ourselves to the bone, and then I fell ill. Not terminally, but serious enough to need support. It was then I saw his true nature. No shouting or drama, he just packed his bags and left for someone else. A sick wife, three children—why should he carry such a burden? He vanished quietly from my life like a shadow in the night, leaving me to struggle on my own.
My third husband, Michael, was a true test. We met in a small town near Birmingham, when he had nothing—broken, lost, without direction. I pulled him from the depths: helped him stand, gave him half my salary, supported his dreams. I toiled for him as a barge hauler pulls against the tide, never sparing myself. Yet, he did nothing for me—not a single kind gesture, not an ounce of gratitude. But I convinced myself: a man is the head of the family, and I had to support him, even if it meant bearing everything alone. Recently, he looked at me with cold eyes and passed judgment: “You’ve let yourself go. Old and neglectful.”
He’s only three years younger than me, yet he considers himself youthful and vigorous, while seeing me as a relic undeserving of attention. This, from a man I’d sustained, fed, lifted from his knees for years! I was seized by rage. I couldn’t endure it anymore: I stopped giving him money, and he immediately called me stingy, listing all my “flaws,” as if I owed him forever. His words cut like knives but also opened my eyes: I no longer wanted to live for someone who didn’t appreciate me.
So here I am, in my mid-forties, at a crossroads with a broken heart and empty hands. I’ve poured so much into these relationships, put in so much energy to make them better, and what remains? Emptiness. I’m afraid even to think about the future. Who would want me now? Isn’t it true that older women are shunned—or am I wrong? These thoughts gnaw at me like a cold wind on an autumn night, and I don’t know where to find the answer. I’ve tried to build a family three times, been burned each time, and now the fear of loneliness bangs increasingly loudly at my door. Is this really all that awaits me? Am I destined to be alone as life passes me by?
