I have been married three times, always striving to become the perfect wife, but now I fear ending up alone in my twilight years.
I have intertwined my fate in marriage three times, and each time I poured my heart into being an exemplary spouse—caring, patient, ready to sacrifice for my loved ones. However, three attempts to build happiness turned into bitter disappointments, and now I’m haunted by the fear: what if I meet old age in emptiness and solitude?
My first husband, John, left, throwing cruel words in my face: “I’m bored of you.” He was bored of me, our children, my care, my efforts. “You’re dull,” he said, looking at me with disdain. “All you can do is make stews.” Back then, I believed this was the essence of a woman’s happiness: being a homemaker, a mother, a support for her husband. I didn’t know how to keep him, what to do to make him stay. And then I was left alone—with two little ones, bewildered and crushed.
My second husband, Robert, came into my life when I still hoped that things could be different. I learned from my mistakes: tried to be wiser, demanded less, forgave more. But life struck again: money was desperately short, we were both exhausted from work, and then I fell ill. Not terminally, but serious enough to need support. And that’s when I saw his true colors. He didn’t yell or make a scene—he just packed his things and left for someone else. A sick wife, three kids—why would he want such a burden? He faded out of my life as quietly as a shadow in the night, leaving me to fight alone.
My third husband, James, was a true test. When we met in a small town under the shadow of the Peaks, he was a broken, aimless man. I literally pulled him from the brink: helped him stand again, gave him half my earnings, supported his dreams. I dragged him forward like a barge against the current, sparing no effort. But 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 carrying everything myself. And recently he looked at me with cold eyes and declared: “You’ve let yourself go. Old, unkempt.”
He’s only three years younger than me but considers himself young and vigorous, while viewing me as almost a ruin, unworthy of attention. And this from a man I supported and nurtured for years! I was furious. I couldn’t bear it anymore: I stopped giving him money, and he immediately called me stingy, recounting all my “flaws,” as if I was obliged to him for life. His words cut like knives but opened my eyes: I no longer want to live for someone who doesn’t appreciate me.
And now I stand at a crossroads, in my forties, with a broken heart and empty hands. For so many years, I invested my soul in these relationships, gave so much to make them better, and what’s the result? Emptiness. I’m scared even to think about the future. Who needs me now? Isn’t it true that older women go unnoticed—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. Three times I tried to build a family, three times I was burned, and now the fear of loneliness knocks louder at my door. Is this all that’s left for me? Will I remain alone, watching life pass me by?
