Divorcing at the age of sixty-eight was no romantic gesture, nor was it a midlife crisis. It was an admission of defeata confession that after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom I shared not just a home but also the silences, the empty stares over supper, and all the words left unspoken, I had not become the man I ought to have been. My name is Edward, I hail from York, and my tale began in loneliness but ended with an unexpected revelation.
With Alice, I spent nearly my entire life. We married at twenty, in the England of the seventies. At first, there was love: kisses on the park bench, long conversations at dusk, shared dreams. And then, it all faded. First came the children, then the mortgages, the work, the exhaustion, the routine Our talks dwindled to brief exchanges in the kitchen: «Did you pay the gas bill?» «Wheres the receipt?» «Were out of salt.»
In the mornings, Id look at her and no longer see my wifejust a tired neighbour. And likely, I was the same to her. We werent living together; we were living side by side. Stubborn and proud, I one day told myself, «You deserve something more. Another chance. To breathe fresh air, at long last.» And so, I asked for a divorce.
Alice didnt resist. She simply sat in her chair, gazed out the window, and said, «Fine. Do as you please. 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 cat, sipped my tea on the balcony in the mornings. But then came another feelingemptiness. The house grew too quiet. Meals lost their taste. Life became dull.
Then I had what seemed a brilliant idea: to find a woman who could help. Someone like Alice in the old dayssomeone to clean, cook, tidy, chat a bit. Yes, perhaps a touch younger, in her fifties, experienced, kind. Maybe a widow. My demands werent grand. I even thought, «Im not a bad catchI take care of myself, own my flat, and Im retired. Why not?»
I began my search. I spoke to neighbours, hinted to acquaintances. Then I mustered the courage to place an advert in the local paper. Short and to the point: «Man, 68, seeks woman for companionship and household assistance. Good terms, lodging and board included.»
That advert changed my life. Because three days later, I received a letter. Just one. But it was enough to make my hands tremble.
«Dear Edward,
Do you truly believe a woman in the 2020s exists solely to wash socks and fry sausages? We dont live in the nineteenth century.
Youre not seeking a companiona person with a soul and desiresbut an unpaid housemaid with a romantic veneer.
Perhaps you ought to learn first how to care for yourselfto cook your own meals and keep your own house in order.
Sincerely,
A woman who isnt looking for a gentleman with a tea towel in hand.»
I read it again and again. At first, I seethed with rage. How dare she? Who did she think she was? I wasnt trying to take advantageI only wanted warmth, a cosy home, a womans touch
But then I wondered: What if she was right? Without realising it, was I asking someone to make my life comfortable rather than learning to build it myself?
I started with the basics. I learned to make soup. Then, shepherds pie. I subscribed to a cooking channel, shopped with a list, ironed my own shirts. I felt clumsy, even foolish, but in time, it became less of 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. On the balcony, there are geraniums I planted myself. On Sundays, I bake apple tartAlices recipe. Sometimes I think, «I could take her a slice.» Perhaps for the first time in forty years, Ive understood what it means not just to be a husband, but a person beside someone.
Now, if asked whether Id marry again, Id say no. But if ever a woman sat beside me on that park benchone who sought not a master, but simply conversationId surely speak to her. Only now, Id do so as a different man.
