**”My Children Forbid Me from Remarrying…” A Story of the Emotions Trapped Between Past and Future**
My name is Eleanor, and I’m 44. Not long ago, I would never have imagined finding myself in this emotional quicksand. I spent my entire life with one man—my husband, the father of my children, my companion, my anchor. We were together for over twenty years. Then, a year ago, he died suddenly. A heart attack. Gone without goodbye, leaving behind an empty house and a gaping, icy hole in my heart.
We have two children. Oliver, our son, is in his third year at university—bright, mature, sensible. Our daughter, Charlotte, just finished school and started uni, still so young and tender. They are my world. But… they don’t see me as a woman. Only as their mother. Only as a widow.
Two months ago, James came into my life. We met by chance at an art exhibition—I’d gone just to keep myself from drowning in loneliness. He turned out to be kind, gentle, a true gentleman. No pressure, no demands, just… presence. We started seeing each other—walks at first, then dinners, conversations that stretched into the night. In his eyes, I felt like a woman again. Alive. Wanted. Loved.
And then, recently, he proposed. Simple, sincere: *”Eleanor, be my wife. Let’s start fresh. Together.”* I burst into tears—not from sorrow, but from fear. Because I knew my children wouldn’t accept it.
I gathered my courage and sat them down, just like I had when I told them I was pregnant, when I taught them to tie their shoelaces, when I waved them off on their first day of school. Only this time, everything was different.
*”There’s someone…”* I began quietly. *”His name is James. We’re together. And he’s asked me to marry him.”*
What followed wasn’t just anger—it was a storm. Outrage, hurt, shock.
*”So you’ve already forgotten Dad?!”* Charlotte nearly shouted, tears welling in her eyes.
*”You want to bring some stranger into our home?”* Oliver snapped. *”You’re betraying him!”*
They looked at me like I was a stranger. I tried to explain—I haven’t forgotten. I remember every line of his face, the sound of his laughter, the scent of his aftershave. But he’s gone, my darlings. I can’t bring him back, no matter how much I wish it. I’m alive. I’m breathing. And I want to be with someone who makes my heart beat again.
But they didn’t hear me.
Now I’m in limbo. If I marry James, I’ll lose them—they’ll stop speaking to me, walk out of my life. If I refuse, I’ll be alone. Because children don’t stay forever. Today, they’re here—tomorrow, they’ll have their own families, their own lives. And I? I’ll just be “Mum, sitting alone in the flat.”
I told James, *”Give me time. Maybe they’ll understand. Eventually.”* He nodded. Held me. Said he’d wait. But I’m not sure how long his patience will last—and he has every right to that. He doesn’t carry my memories, my grief, my children. He just wants to be with me. That’s no crime.
It hurts that my children don’t see me as a person. I’ve lived honestly. I was a faithful wife, a devoted mother. I never abandoned or betrayed anyone. Why must I apologise now for wanting happiness?
I don’t blame them. I understand—they’re afraid James will erase their father, that I’ll wipe away the past. But that won’t happen. He’ll always be here—in photos, in stories, in memory. But *I* am here too. *I* am alive.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit by the window and watch the city, where every pane of glass holds a different story. Someone falling in love. Someone getting married. Someone having children. And some… just living. And I realise—I want to live too. Not just survive. Not just exist. *Live.*
I don’t know what choice I’ll make in the end. But I know this: I’m no criminal. I’m a woman. And I have the right to be happy.
