**Diary Entry**
Divorcing at sixty-eight wasnt some grand romantic gesture or a midlife crisis. It was admitting defeatthat after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom I shared not just a home but also silent dinners, empty glances, and all the things we never dared say aloud, I hadnt been the man I shouldve been. My name is Arthur, from Bristol, and my story began with loneliness but ended with an unexpected lesson.
Margaret and I spent most of our lives together. We married young, in the England of the seventies. At first, there was love: kisses on a park bench, long talks at dusk, shared dreams. Then, bit by bit, it faded. First came the children, then the mortgages, the work, the exhaustion, the routine Conversations shrank to passing remarks in the kitchen: *Did you pay the gas bill?* *Wheres the receipt?* *Were out of salt.*
Mornings, Id look at her and no longer see my wifejust a tired stranger. And likely, she saw the same in me. We werent living together anymore, just side by side. Stubborn and proud, I finally told myself, *You deserve more. A fresh start. A chance to breathe.* So I asked for a divorce.
Margaret didnt argue. She just sat by the window, stared out, and said,
*Fine. Do what you want. Im done fighting.*
I left. At first, I felt free, as if a weight had lifted. I slept on the other side of the bed, adopted a tabby named Oliver, drank my tea on the balcony. But then came the emptiness. The house was too quiet. Meals tasted bland. Life felt flat.
Thats when I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: find a woman to help. Someone like Margaret used to besomeone to cook, clean, chat. Maybe a bit younger, mid-fifties, kind-hearted. A widow, perhaps. My expectations werent high. *Im not a bad catch,* I reasoned. *Ive got a pension, a tidy flat. Why not?*
I started asking aroundneighbours, acquaintances. Then I placed an ad in the local paper: *Gentleman, 68, seeks lady for companionship and household assistance. Good terms, room and board included.*
That ad changed everything. Three days later, a single letter arrived. Just one. But it was enough to make my hands shake.
*Dear Arthur,*
*Do you truly believe a woman in the 2020s exists to wash socks and fry sausages? Were not in the Victorian era.*
*Youre not seeking a companiona person with thoughts and desiresbut an unpaid housekeeper with a hint of romance.*
*Perhaps you should learn to cook your own meals and tidy your own flat first.*
*Sincerely,
A woman who isnt looking for a man with a teacup in one hand and a checklist in the other.*
I read it again and again. At first, I seethed. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasnt exploiting anyonejust longing for warmth, a proper home, a womans touch
But then it struck me: *What if shes right?* Was I, without realising, still expecting someone else to make life comfortable instead of doing it myself?
So I started with the basics. Learned to make soup. Then shepherds pie. Subscribed to a cooking channel, made shopping lists, ironed my own shirts. I felt clumsy, even foolish, but in time, it stopped being a chore. It was my life. My choice.
I framed that letter and hung it in the kitchen. A reminder: dont wait for rescue if you havent tried climbing out first.
Three months on, I still live alonebut my flat smells of roast dinners now. There are geraniums on the balcony, planted by me. Sundays, I bake apple crumbleMargarets recipe. Sometimes I think, *I could bring her a slice.* For the first time in forty years, I understand what it means not just to be a husband, but a person standing beside someone.
If you ask whether Id marry again, Id say no. But if a woman ever sits beside me on that park benchone who wants conversation, not a caretakerId surely talk to her. Only now, Id be a different man.
