Life’s a funny old thing, isn’t it? Sometimes you’re just plodding along, barely noticing how everything shifts around you—kids grow up, mates drift away, and before you know it, you’re not as young as you used to be. But there’s one constant in all of it—my wife, Margaret. Took me years to realise it, though. We’re not those carefree young sweethearts anymore, both of us a bit greyer, a bit slower, but to me, she’s still the centre of my world, my home, my safe place.
Margaret and I got married nearly thirty years ago. Back then, I thought I knew what love was. We were young, full of dreams, buzzing with plans. She was gorgeous—long chestnut hair, eyes that sparkled, a smile that made my heart skip. I imagined our life would be like something out of a storybook: a cosy home, kids, adventures, endless happy days. But reality? Well, it had other ideas. Work, bills, raising our son Oliver and then our daughter Eleanor, money troubles, the odd row—it all piled up like dirty laundry. Sometimes I’d catch myself wondering why we were even together.
Years rolled on, and I noticed Margaret changing. Her hair started going silvery, little lines appeared on her face, her figure wasn’t the same as it’d been in her twenties. She got tired more easily, grumbled about her aches, and that laugh of hers—the one I adored—didn’t come as often. And me? Well, let’s just say I’m not exactly the strapping lad I once was. Hair thinning, back playing up, energy levels not what they used to be. We’d both changed, and sometimes it felt like there was this wall between us. But then it hit me—no matter what, Margaret’s the one person I can’t picture my life without.
That realisation came out of nowhere, really. We were sitting on the patio of our house in Cheltenham, sipping tea, watching the sunset paint the sky pink and gold. Margaret was nattering on about our neighbour’s latest marital spat when she suddenly stopped, looked at me, and said, “James, do you ever actually listen to a word I say?” I laughed, she rolled her eyes, but there was this warmth in her gaze. And right then, it struck me—this quiet moment, her voice, just us being together—that was happiness. Not grand gestures or fancy presents, just… us.
I started thinking back over our life. How she held my hand when I lost my job and didn’t know how we’d keep the lights on. How she’d stay up all night when Oliver had a fever, or how she cried happy tears when Eleanor graduated. I remembered her steadying me when my dad passed, and how we’d still crack up at the silliest jokes, even when everything else was falling apart. She’s been there through all of it—the good, the bad, the messy bits in between.
Sometimes I hear my mates moaning about their wives—how they’ve “let themselves go,” or how they’re naggy or moody. I keep quiet, but deep down, I think they’ve missed the point. A wife isn’t just someone you share a house with. She’s the one who knows you better than anyone—who’s seen you at your worst and stayed anyway. Margaret knows I snore like a tractor, that I can’t stand black pudding, and that I go quiet when I’m stressed. And I know she’s terrified of thunderstorms, adores daisies, and always gets weepy at rom-coms. We’re not perfect, but we’re a team.
Now the kids are grown—Oliver’s moved to Bristol, works as an engineer, and Eleanor’s married with a little one on the way. We’re proud as punch, but I’ll admit, I miss the days when the house was full of their noise. Margaret does too—I can see it in her face. But instead of moping, she’s already planning the nursery and knitting tiny booties. Watching her, I think: bloody hell, she’s amazing.
We don’t say “I love you” all that much. Maybe because words don’t feel as big as the little things. Love is me making her a cuppa in the morning because I know she likes starting the day that way. It’s her draping a blanket over me if I nod off in the armchair. It’s our quiet walks in the park where we don’t need to chat to feel close. It’s her hand in mine when we stroll down the high street, and that smile of hers—still enough to make my heart thump.
No clue how many years Margaret and I have left. Life’s unpredictable, and I try not to dwell on the sad bits. But one thing’s certain: as long as she’s beside me, I’m home. She’s my hearth, my harbour, my closest soul. And if I could go back? I’d choose her all over again—wrinkles, grey hairs, and all. Because there’s no one more important than her.
