Divorcing at sixty-eight wasnt a 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 the silence, the empty stares over dinner, and all the words left unspoken, Id lost sight of who I was meant to be. My name is Edward, Im from York, and my story began with loneliness but ended with an unexpected revelation.
With Alice, I spent nearly my entire life. We married at twenty, in England during the seventies. At first, there was love: kisses on the park bench, long talks at dusk, shared dreams. Then, slowly, it all faded. First came the children, then the mortgages, the work, the exhaustion, the routine Conversations shrank to brief exchanges in the kitchen: Did you pay the electric? Wheres the bill? Were out of salt.
Mornings, Id look at her and no longer see my wifejust a weary neighbour. 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. Another chance. Fresh air, at long last. So I asked for a divorce.
Alice didnt resist. She just sat in her chair, gazed 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 slept on the other side of the bed, adopted a cat named Whiskers, sipped tea on the balcony at sunrise. But then came the hollowness. The house grew too quiet. Meals lost their flavour. Life felt dull.
Then I had what seemed a brilliant idea: find a woman to help. Someone like Alice used to besomeone to clean, cook, chat. Maybe a bit younger, in her fifties, kind-hearted. A widow, perhaps. My demands werent high. I even thought, Im not a bad catchI take care of myself, own a flat, and Im retired. Why not?
I began my search. I hinted to neighbours, mentioned it to acquaintances. Finally, I placed an ad in the local paper: Man, 68, seeks woman for companionship and household help. Good terms, room and board included.
That ad changed my life. Three days later, I received a letter. Just one. But it was enough to make my hands shake.
*Dear Edward,*
*Do you truly believe a woman in the 2020s exists solely to wash socks and fry sausages? We dont live in the Victorian era.*
*Youre not seeking a companiona person with a soul and desiresbut a free housemaid with a romantic twist.*
*Perhaps you should learn to care for yourself first: cook your own meals, tidy your own home.*
*Sincerely,*
*A woman who isnt looking for a gentleman with a tea towel in hand.*
I read it over and over. At first, I burned with anger. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasnt trying to take advantageI just wanted warmth, a cosy home, a womans touch
But then I wondered: What if she was right? Was I, without realising it, expecting someone to keep my life comfortable instead of learning to build it myself?
I started with the basics. Learned to make soup. Then, shepherds pie. I subscribed to a cooking YouTube channel, shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. I felt clumsy, even foolishbut with 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 have passed. I still live alone, but now my flat smells of stew. Geraniums I planted bloom on the balcony. On Sundays, I bake apple crumbleAlices recipe. Sometimes I think, I could take her a slice. For the first time in forty years, Ive understood what it means not just to be a husband, but to stand beside someone as a whole person.
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 gladly talk. Only now, Id do it as a different man.
