As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized I never want to marry again.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that I have always been the perfect mother—caring, gentle, without bad habits, someone my children could rely on at any moment. I have three of them: two sons and a daughter, whom I raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest child, Alex, when I was 37, and there is a significant age gap between him and my older children. I was always their rock, their fortress, but now, as I look back, I realize how little I left for myself.
My life was filled with hard work. I labored tirelessly, supporting the family, but spent very little on myself. Everything went to the children, the house, and making a home for them. I never traveled, took breaks, or treated myself—although, deep down, I always wanted to! Before getting married, I was different: free-spirited, carefree, often traveling to the coast or the mountains, following my heart. Then, I married Nicholas. He wasn’t a bad person—didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, took care of the house as best he could. But his disorderliness drove me mad: things were always scattered everywhere, chaos became part of our life. At 55, when the kids had grown and moved out, I suddenly looked at myself and realized: I couldn’t take it anymore.
We lived in a large house near London, but it had long since stopped feeling like mine. Nicholas developed an expensive hobby—hunting. Three pedigree hounds, an arsenal of weapons, sheds filled with gear—all of that consumed his time and money. And what about me? I couldn’t even get a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Many things I enjoyed only irritated him. My dreams, and my little joys, suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired, but continued working—my habit of keeping everything under control wouldn’t let go. And then, as a retiree, I made my decision. I proposed a divorce to Nicholas with a condition: I would leave him our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and guns, and in exchange, I asked for just a two-bedroom apartment for myself. He agreed without dispute—by then, our connection had frayed to a thread. The children had left, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for him, dissolving into his life, without getting anything in return.
Two years ago, in November, I moved into my new apartment in the city center. With just a worn-out suitcase in hand, I entered bare walls, where there was no trace of the past. And you know, I was happy—to tears, to a tremor in my chest! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started to settle in bit by bit: replaced the pipes, installed new windows, updated the doors. Every nail hammered into that apartment was my small triumph.
We officially divorced, and since then, my life has been vibrant. Now, I go to the seaside every year, enjoy live music at concerts, embark on travels I’d dreamed of in my youth. I have two fluffy cats—purebred, proud, my loyal companions. My relationship with the children is wonderful: they cheer me on, call, and visit. Now, approaching 62, I feel so light, so at peace, that I can confidently say: these are the happiest years of my life. I don’t want to change a thing, nor do I want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I’ve given too much—years, energy, dreams—to bind myself again into commitments that could become chains. Soon I’ll turn 62, and I pray for only one thing: that I don’t fade tomorrow, that I can continue to enjoy this new, my world for many years. This is my story—of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t give up this happiness for anything.
