Divorcing at sixty-eight wasnt some grand romantic gesture or a midlife crisis. It was me finally admitting defeatthat after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom Id shared not just a home but also the silences, the empty stares over dinner, and everything left unsaid, I hadnt been who I was meant to be. My name is Edward, Im from York, and my story began with loneliness and ended with an unexpected revelation.
Martha and I spent most of our lives together. We married young, in the England of the seventies. At first, there was love: stolen kisses on park benches, long talks at dusk, shared dreams. Then, bit by bit, it all faded. First came the children, then the mortgages, the jobs, the exhaustion, the routine Conversations shrank to clipped exchanges in the kitchen: *Did you pay the gas bill? Wheres the receipt? Were out of milk.*
Mornings, Id look at her and no longer see my wifejust a tired stranger. And likely, I was the same to her. We werent living together anymore; we were living side by side. Stubborn and proud, I finally told myself, *You deserve more. A second chance. Fresh air, at long last.* So I asked for a divorce.
Martha didnt resist. She just sat in her chair, stared out the window, and said, *Fine. Do what you want. Im done fighting.*
I left. At first, I felt free, as if a weight had lifted. I sprawled across the bed, adopted a tabby cat, sipped my morning tea on the balcony. But then came the hollowness. The house was too quiet. Meals lost their taste. Life felt flat.
Thats when I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: find a woman to help. Someone like Martha used to besomeone to cook, clean, chat a bit. Maybe a touch younger, mid-fifties, kind, experienced. A widow, perhaps. My demands werent high. I even thought, *Im not a bad catchIve kept myself well, own my flat, retired comfortably. Why not?*
I started looking. Mentioned it to neighbours, hinted to acquaintances. Then I worked up the nerve to place an ad in the local paper. Short and to the point: *Gentleman, 68, seeks lady for companionship and light household assistance. Good terms, room and board included.*
That ad changed everything. Because three days later, I got a letter. Just one. But it was enough to make my hands shake.
*Dear Edward,*
*Do you honestly believe a woman in the 2020s exists solely to wash socks and fry chips? Were not living in the Victorian era.*
*Youre not seeking a companiona person with thoughts and desiresbut an unpaid housemaid with a romantic veneer.*
*Perhaps you ought to learn to look after yourself first: cook your own meals, tidy your own home.*
*Sincerely,*
*A woman who isnt hunting for a gentleman with a tea towel in hand.*
I read it again and again. At first, I seethed. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasnt trying to take advantagejust wanted warmth, a cosy home, a womans touch
But then I wondered: *What if shes right?* Was I, without realising, just hoping someone would keep life comfortable for me instead of building it myself?
I started with the basics. Learned to make soup. Then shepherds pie. Subscribed to a cooking channel, shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. I felt clumsy, even foolish, but in time, it stopped being a chore. It was my life. My choice.
I even framed that letter and hung it in the kitchen. A reminder: dont ask others to rescue you if you wont climb out of the pit yourself.
Three months on, Im still alonebut now my flat smells of stew. There are geraniums on the balcony, planted by me. Sundays, I bake apple crumbleMarthas recipe. Sometimes I think, *I could take her a slice.* Maybe for the first time in forty years, Ive understood what it means not just to be a husband, but to stand beside someone as your own man.
Now, if anyone asks if Id marry again, Ill say no. But if a woman ever sits beside me on that park benchone who isnt looking for a master, just conversationId talk to her. Only now, Id do it as a different man.
