I’m fifty-six. And I’ve never been married. No, I’m not a spinster. I have a wonderful daughter—married, fluent in five languages, working at a top IT firm. But a husband? Never had one. And my daughter, sadly, never met her biological father. We don’t even know if he’s alive.
It was a youthful fling. He came to the UK from Italy as an exchange student, studying English. We met by chance at some event in my university’s language department. Back then, people struck up friendships easily, especially students. At least, that’s how it seems now.
It warmed my heart that he was Italian. To this day, despite everything, I love Italy. My daughter and I have traveled the whole “boot”—from Brighton to Edinburgh.
I won’t dwell on our romance. There wasn’t much of one, really. We wandered through London a lot. I showed him my hometown, and he’d rest his hand lightly on my waist.
Everything happened quickly, casually, without fanfare. By the time I realized I was pregnant, my fiery brunet Leo from Naples was already gone.
My mum was my rock back then. She said we had no right to take away a life, because it was given from above. And my dad? Over the moon, even though I’d only just turned twenty-one.
I was lucky with my parents, and my daughter was lucky with her grandparents. They’re gone now, but we’ll always remember them.
Well, enough of the past. Here’s the present. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but I often read comments. Many share similar stories, and sometimes you stumble upon a thought that lingers.
Six months ago, I met a man. Funny thing—our meeting began with an argument. We were queuing at the till in Tesco, him behind me. As I scanned my groceries, I realized I’d forgotten the coffee. The shop’s tiny, practically on our doorstep, so I could’ve grabbed it in seconds. But this man in round glasses—he *raged* at me. I thought he might actually hit me.
I didn’t engage. Paid silently, left. Then I heard quick footsteps behind me. Turned around—there he was, that rude man, but now grinning, holding a bar of Dairy Milk. He caught up, apologizing profusely, blaming stress, overwork, “nerves shot to hell.”
I smiled. And that’s how we met.
Turns out, we’re nearly neighbors. Divorced, two grown kids, owns his flat. Works at one of the museums in town. He’s clever, refined, respectable. After six months, he proposed—not just marriage, but moving in together.
I said yes. Don’t know why. Maybe to close some old wound, to finally be a wife. Or maybe just tired of being alone. My daughter’s grown, her own life, her own family—though no grandchildren yet. Or maybe I’m proving something to myself. Doesn’t matter now.
But here’s the problem. The moment the marriage notice went to the registry office, and he moved in, I felt… tension.
Understand—I’ve lived alone for decades. My habits are carved in stone, and I don’t want to change them.
For one, he *snores*. A freight train in the night. I already struggle to sleep—with him, it’s hopeless. I need tomb silence to rest.
He leaves his shoes by the door, never puts them away. Walks out of rooms, lights blazing.
I know how petty this sounds. But I *need* my routines. Mornings, I drink my tea in quiet, scroll the news on my tablet. Now? I’m expected to read aloud, *discuss*. Like my solitude’s been looted.
And at home, he dresses like a tramp—yet for work, prim as a peacock.
Maybe I’ll adjust. To the socks on the floor, the lectures, all of it.
…Or maybe I won’t.
