As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that I never want to get married again.
Over the years, I’ve understood that I’ve always been the perfect mother—caring, gentle, and without bad habits, always someone my children could rely on. I have three: two sons and a daughter, whom I raised with love and dedication. I had my youngest, Alex, at 37, so there’s quite an age gap between him and my older kids. I was always a pillar of strength for them, as solid as a rock, but now, looking back, I realize how little I left for myself.
My life was filled with hard work. I labored tirelessly, supporting the family, while spending only crumbs on myself. Everything went towards the children, the home, creating a comfortable life for them. I never traveled, took vacations, or indulged myself—though deep down, I longed for it. Before marriage, I was different: free-spirited, lighthearted, often heading to the sea or the mountains, wherever my heart led me. Then I married Nick. He wasn’t a bad man—neither drinking nor smoking, and he cared for the home as best as he could. But his messiness drove me insane: stuff was scattered everywhere, and chaos became part of our life. At 55, with the kids grown and gone, I suddenly looked at myself and realized: I couldn’t go on like this.
We lived in a spacious house near Liverpool, but this home had long since stopped being mine. Nick developed an expensive hobby—hunting. With three pedigree hounds, an arsenal of weapons, and sheds full of gear, it consumed his time and money. And me? I couldn’t even get a cat—he couldn’t stand them. Much of what I loved only irritated him. My dreams, my little joys suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but kept working out of habit and the need to stay in control. Then, once I was officially a pensioner, I took the leap. I proposed a divorce to Nick on one condition: I would leave him our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and guns, and in return, I asked only for a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then, our bond had worn down to a thread. The children were gone, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for him, dissolving into his life while getting nothing in return.
In November two years ago, I moved into my new flat in the city center. With nothing but a worn-out bag in hand, I walked into those bare walls without a trace of the past. And you know what? I was happy—to tears, to trembling! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started to settle in slowly: replacing pipes, installing new windows, updating doors. Every nail hammered into this flat was my little triumph.
We divorced officially, and since then, my life has blossomed with color. Now I go to the seaside every year, listen to live music at concerts, and embark on journeys I dreamed of in my youth. I have two fluffy cats—pedigreed, proud, my loyal companions. I have great relationships with my kids: they’re happy for me, they call, they visit. And now, at almost 62, I feel so light, so peaceful, that I’m not afraid to say: these are the happiest years of my life. I don’t want to change anything; I don’t want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I’ve given too much—years, energy, dreams—to bind myself with ties that could become chains again. Soon I’ll be 62, and I pray for just one thing: not to fade tomorrow, but to enjoy this new, my world, for years to come. This is my story—the story of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t give this happiness to anyone.
