I married my neighbour, Arthur Blackwood, whos eightytwo, just to keep the council from putting him in a residential home.
Are you out of your mind? my sister Susan practically spilled her tea when I told her.
First off, hes eightytwo, not eighty, I replied as calmly as I could. And second let me finish.
It all started when I overheard his children chatting beneath his windows. They only came round twice a year to check that Father was still breathing, then vanished again. This time theyd arrived with brochures for retirement villages.
Dad, youre eightytwo. You cant live on your own.
Im eightytwo, not eightytwo maladies, he shot back in his hoarse, warmtoned voice. I cook for myself, I go to the market, and I even bingewatch dramas without a wink of sleep. Im perfectly fine!
One evening Arthur knocked on my door, a bottle of red in hand and the look of a man about to have a desperate, yet important, talk.
I need a favour something a little odd.
A couple of glasses later, that odd favour turned into a proposal of hand and heart.
Just on paper, he explained. If Im married, my kids will find it harder to whisk me away out of sight.
I stared into his blue eyes, still flickering with mischief and grit, and thought of my quiet nights: an empty flat, the telly buzzing, and the deafening silence of being alone. He was the only one who asked me how my day had gone every single morning.
And whats in it for me? I asked.
Half the bills, a Sunday roast and someone wholl be glad you get home.
Three weeks later we stood in the register office. I wore a dress that said found this this morning. He was in an old tweed suit that reeked of mothballs and memories. Our witnesses were the kiosk shopkeeper and her husband, who could barely hold back their laughter.
You may now kiss the bride, the clerk announced.
He planted a kiss on my cheek so loud it sounded like an envelope being ripped open.
After that everything fell into an odd sort of rhythm: he rose at six, did his legendary five pushups, I drank yesterdays coffee and stayed up late after work.
Thats not coffee, its torture, he growled.
And your exercises are a parody of sport, I retorted.
Sundays filled the house with the smell of roast meat and laughter. He talked about his late wife, the love of his life, and about his children, who saw him more as a problem than a father.
Then one day his children burst in, accusations flying.
Shes using him!
I can hear you perfectly! he shouted from the kitchen. And, by the way, your coffee is terrible!
Why did you marry him? his daughter asked, her stare icy.
I looked where he was humming, pouring me another cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to share Sunday dinner with, someone to say Im home, someone who lights up at my laugh. Is that a crime?
The door slammed shut so hard it seemed to punctuate their argument. He brought two mugs.
They think Ive gone off the rails.
Theyre not wrong, I smiled.
Youre mad too.
Which makes us a perfect pair.
Your coffee is still poison.
And your pushups are cartoonish.
Well, its family.
We clinked our mugs against the backdrop of a setting sun and a love that felt both real and unreal at the same time.
Six months later nothings changed: he still gets up far too early, I still ruin his coffee, and Sundays still smell of roast and happiness.
Do you ever regret it?
Not for a second, I answer every time.
Let them call our marriage a sham. To me its the most genuine thing thats ever happened in my life.
