I married my neighbour, Arthur Whitfield, whos eightytwo, just to keep the council from shoving him into a care home.
Are you out of your mind? my sister Sarah nearly spilled her tea when I told her.
First off, hes eightytwo, not eightytwoandabit, I replied as calmly as possible. And secondly let me finish.
It all started when I overheard his children chatting under his kitchen window. They turned up twice a year: just enough to make sure their dad was still breathing, then vanished again. This time they arrived with glossy brochures for retirement villages.
Dad, youre already eightytwo. You cant live alone.
Im eightytwo, not eightytwo ailments, Arthur snapped in his hoarse, warm voice. I cook for myself, I shop at the market, and I bingewatch dramas without a drop of sleep. Im fine!
That evening he knocked on my door, clutching a bottle of cheap red and looking like a man about to have a desperate, yet very important, conversation.
I need a favour a slightly odd one.
A couple of glasses later, that odd favour turned into a proposal of handinhand.
Just on paper, he explained. If Im married, the kids will find it harder to send me off somewhere out of sight.
I stared into his blue eyes, where a mischievous spark still flickered, and thought of my quiet nights: an empty flat, the telly blaring, and a deafening silence. He, however, was the only one who asked me each day how I was really doing.
Whats in it for me? I asked.
Half the bills, a Sunday roast, and someone who actually cares that I get home for dinner.
Three weeks later we stood in the register office in Brighton.
I wore a dress that said found this this morning on the label.
He was in an old tweed suit that reeked of mothballs and nostalgia.
Our witnesses were the lady from the corner shop and her husband, who struggled to keep a straight face.
You may now kiss the bride,
He smacked my cheek so hard it sounded like a postoffice envelope being licked.
The rest fell into place with surprising ease: he rose at six, performed his legendary five pushups, I sipped yesterdays coffee and stayed up late after work.
Thats not coffee, its torture, he grumbled.
Your exercise routine is a parody of sport, I retorted.
Sundays filled the house with the aroma of roast potatoes and laughter. He told stories of his late wife, the love of his life, and of the children who now saw him more as a problem than a father.
Then one day those very children stormed in, brandishing accusations.
Shes using him!
I hear you perfectly! Arthur shouted from the kitchen. And by the way, your coffee tastes like swamp water!
Why on earth did you get married? his daughter asked, her gaze as cold as a January morning.
I glanced at Arthur, humming while pouring me another cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to share Sunday dinner with, someone to say, Im home, and a bloke who actually enjoys my laugh. Is that a crime?
The door slammed shut with such a bang it seemed to seal their argument forever.
He brought over two mugs.
They think Ive gone off the deep end.
Theyre not wrong, I smiled.
Youre mad too.
Which makes us the perfect pair.
Your coffee is still poison.
And your fitness is a cartoon.
Well, were a family, after all.
We clinked mugs against the backdrop of a golden sunset and a love that was as real as it was a little ridiculous.
Six months on, nothings changed: he still gets up at the crack of dawn, I still ruin the coffee, and Sundays still smell of roast and happiness.
No regrets?
Not a single second, I answer every time.
Let anyone call our marriage a sham. To me its the most genuine thing thats ever happened in my life.
Anonymous.
