“My children won’t let me remarry…” A story of the struggle to be a woman caught between past and future.
My name is Sarah, and I’m 44. Not long ago, I couldn’t have imagined finding myself in such an emotional trap. I spent my whole life with one man—my husband, the father of my children, my partner, my rock. We were together for over twenty years. Then, a year ago, he died suddenly. A heart attack. He left without a goodbye, leaving the house empty and my soul hollow, like a gaping, frozen wound.
I have two children. My son is in his third year at university—grown now, smart, level-headed. My daughter just finished school this year, starting university, still so young and fragile. I’m proud of them; they’re my whole world. But… they don’t see me as a woman. Only as a mother. A widow.
Two months ago, James walked into my life. We met by chance at an exhibition I went to just to escape the suffocating loneliness. He was kind, gentle, a real man. He didn’t push, didn’t demand—just stayed close. We started seeing each other, first just walks, then dinners, talking late into the night. In his eyes, I felt like a woman again. Alive. Wanted. Loved.
Then, recently, he asked me to marry him. Simple, sincere: “Sarah, be my wife. Let’s start fresh. Together.” I burst into tears—not from sadness, but fear. Because I knew my children wouldn’t accept it.
I gathered my courage and sat them down at the table, like I did when I told them I was expecting, when I taught them to tie their laces, when I walked them to their first day of school. Only this time, everything was different.
“There’s someone…” I said softly. “His name is James. We’re together. And he’s asked me to marry him.”
What came next wasn’t just shouting—it was a storm. Fury. Hurt. Shock.
“So you’ve already forgotten Dad?” My daughter’s voice cracked, tears brimming in her eyes.
“You want to bring some stranger into our home?” My son spat. “You’re betraying him!”
They looked at me like I was a stranger. I tried to explain: I hadn’t forgotten. I remember every line on his face, his voice, his laugh, the scent of his aftershave. But he’s gone, my darlings. And no matter how much I want to, I can’t bring him back. I’m alive. I’m breathing. And I want to be with someone who makes my heart beat again.
But they wouldn’t listen.
Now I’m trapped, suspended between two impossible choices. If I marry James, I’ll lose my children—they’ll cut me off, walk out of my life. If I refuse him, I’ll be alone. Because children don’t stay forever. Today they’re with me, but tomorrow they’ll have their own families, their own lives. And me? I’ll just be “Mum, sitting alone in the house.”
I told James, “Give me time. Maybe they’ll understand. Eventually.” He nodded, held me, said he’d wait. But I don’t know how long his patience will last. And he has every right to walk away. He doesn’t carry my memories, my grief, my children. He just wants to be with me. And that’s not a crime.
What hurts most is that my children don’t see me as a person. I’ve lived an honest life—loyal wife, devoted mother. I never left, never betrayed, never broke anything. So why, when I just want to be happy, must I apologise for it?
I don’t blame my children. I understand—they’re scared. Afraid James will erase their father’s memory. That I’ll forget the past. But I won’t. He’ll always be here—in photos, in stories, in our hearts… But I’m still here too. I’m alive.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit at the window and watch the city, where behind every pane of glass is another story. Someone’s falling in love. Someone’s getting married. Someone’s having children. And some are just… living. And I realise—I want to live too. Not just survive. Not just exist.
I don’t know what choice I’ll make in the end. But one thing’s certain: I’m not a criminal. I’m a woman. And I deserve happiness.
