Over the years, I’ve realised I never want to marry again.
As I’ve grown older, it’s dawned on me that I’ve spent my life being the perfect mother—kind, dependable, without a single vice, the one my children could always turn to. I raised three of them: two sons and a daughter, giving them all the love I had. My youngest, Oliver, came when I was 37, and the gap between him and the older two was vast. I was their rock, their safe harbour, yet now, looking back, I see how little I kept for myself.
My life was one of labour. I worked tirelessly, held the family together, yet spent barely a penny on myself. Everything went to the children, the house, making a home for them. I never travelled, never indulged, though deep down, I longed for it. Before marriage, I was different—free, spirited, always off to the seaside or the Lake District wherever my heart led me. Then I married Edward. He wasn’t a bad man—no drinking, no temper, did his best to provide. But his mess drove me mad: belongings strewn everywhere, chaos seeping into our days. By 55, when the children had grown and left, I finally looked at myself and thought: no more.
We lived in a spacious house outside Manchester, but it hadn’t felt like mine for years. Edward had taken up an expensive hobby—shooting. Three pedigreed gun dogs, an arsenal of rifles, sheds cluttered with gear—it consumed his time and money. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even keep a cat—he couldn’t stand them. So much of what brought me joy only irritated him. My dreams, my small pleasures, suffocated under his indifference.
Six years ago, in September, I retired but kept working—old habits die hard. Then, as a pensioner, I made my move. I offered Edward a divorce on one condition: he could keep the four-bedroom house, the garage, the car, all the furniture, his dogs and guns. All I asked for in return was a modest two-bed flat for myself. He agreed without argument—by then, whatever bound us had frayed to nothing. The children were gone, the house felt hollow, and I was tired of living for him, vanishing into his world with nothing given back.
Two Novembers ago, I moved into my new flat in the city centre. Just one worn suitcase in hand, stepping into empty rooms with no trace of the past. And do you know? I was happy—so happy it hurt. For the first time in decades, I breathed freely. Bit by bit, I made it mine: new pipes, fresh windows, doors that locked properly. Every nail I hammered into those walls felt like a small victory.
The divorce went through, and since then, my life has bloomed. Now I visit Brighton every year, lose myself in live concerts, take trips I once only dreamed of. I’ve two fluffy Persian cats—elegant, proud, my constant companions. The children are happy for me; they call, they visit. At nearly 62, I feel lighter, more at peace than ever. I can honestly say these are the happiest years of my life. I don’t want to change a thing, don’t want to lose this freedom.
Marry again? Never. I gave too much—years, strength, dreams—to ever bind myself to vows that might become chains. Soon, I’ll be 62, and I pray for just one thing: to keep this flame alive, to savour this new world of mine for years to come. This is my story—the story of a woman who finally found herself after decades of sacrifice. And I won’t let anyone take this happiness from me.