Over the years, I’ve realized that I no longer want to get married.
As time has passed, I’ve understood that I’ve always been the perfect mother—caring, gentle, without any bad habits, the sort of person my children could rely on at any moment. I have three children: two sons and a daughter, whom I raised with love and dedication. The youngest, Alex, was born when I was 37, and there’s quite an age gap between him and the older ones. I was always their rock, their support, but now, looking back, I realize how little I kept for myself.
My life was consumed by work. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family, spending little on myself. Everything went towards the children, the house, and making it comfortable for them. I never traveled, never took a break, never indulged myself—even though deep down, I longed to! Before marriage, I was different: free-spirited, often traveling to the seaside, to the mountains, wherever my heart desired. Then I married Nicholas. He wasn’t a bad man—he didn’t drink or smoke and took care of the house as best he could. But his messiness drove me insane: things strewn everywhere, chaos became part of our lives. At 55, when the kids were grown and gone, I suddenly looked at myself and knew I couldn’t endure it any longer.
We lived in a spacious house near Newcastle, but it stopped feeling like mine long ago. Nicholas developed an expensive hobby—hunting. Three purebred hounds, an array of weapons, and outbuildings filled with gear consumed all his time and money. And me? I couldn’t even have a cat—he loathed them. Everything I liked only seemed to annoy him. My dreams, my little joys, suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but continued working out of habit, not letting go of control. Then, as a pensioner, I made my decision. I proposed a divorce to Nicholas on the condition: I would leave him our three-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs, and guns, in exchange for just a two-bedroom flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then, our bond had worn thin. The children had left, the house felt empty, and I was tired of living for him, dissolving into his life without anything in return.
Two years ago in November, I moved into my new flat in the city center. With one worn-out bag in hand, into bare walls where there wasn’t a trace of the past. And you know what? I was happier than I had been in years—so happy it brought tears and a tremble to my chest! For the first time in decades, I took a deep breath. I started to settle in gradually: replaced the pipes, installed new windows, updated the doors. Every nail hammered into that flat was my little triumph.
We officially divorced, and since then, my life has turned joyful. Now, every year, I travel to the English coast, enjoy live music at concerts, embark on trips I dreamt of in my youth. I have two fluffy cats—pedigreed, proud, my loyal companions. I have a wonderful relationship with my children: they’re happy for me, they call, and they come to visit. And now, at nearly 62, I feel so light, so at peace 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 again in a way that might become chains. Soon, I’ll be 62, and I only pray for one thing: that tomorrow doesn’t fade away so I can continue to enjoy this new world of mine for many more years. This is my story—the story of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t give this happiness away to anyone.
