Divorcing at the age of sixty-eight was no romantic gesture nor a midlife crisis. It was an admission of defeatthat after forty years of marriage to a woman with whom I shared not just a home but also the silences, the empty glances over supper, and all that was never spoken aloud, I had not become the man I ought to be. My name is Arthur, I hail from Canterbury, and my tale begins in loneliness but ends with an unexpected revelation.
With Margaret, I lived nearly my entire life. We married at twenty, in the England of the seventies. At first, there was love: stolen 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 clipped 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 wife, only a weary neighbour. And likely, I was the same to her. We werent living togetherwe were living side by side. Stubborn and proud, I finally told myself, “You deserve more. Another chance. To breathe fresh air, at long last.” And so, I asked for a divorce.
Margaret didnt resist. She simply sat in her chair, gazed out the window, and said, “Very well. Do as you like. Ive no fight left in me.”
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 at dawn. But then came another feelingemptiness. The house grew too quiet. Meals lost their flavour. Life turned dull.
Then I hatched what seemed a brilliant idea: find a woman to help. Someone like Margaret once waswhod wash, cook, clean, chat a while. Perhaps a bit younger, in her fifties, kind, experienced. Maybe a widow. My demands werent great. I even thought, “Im not a bad matchI take care of myself, own my flat, Im retired. Why not?”
I began my search. I mentioned it to neighbours, hinted to acquaintances. Then I dared place an advert in the local paper. Short and to the point: “Gentleman, 68, seeks lady for companionship and domestic assistance. Good terms, lodging and meals provided.”
That advert changed my life. Because three days later, I received a letter. Just one. But it was enough to make my hands shake.
“Dear Arthur,
Do you truly believe a woman in the 2020s exists solely to wash socks and fry your supper? We do not live in the 1800s.
You seek not a companion, a person with a soul and desires, but an unpaid housemaid with a hint of romance.
Perhaps you ought to learn first how to care for yourselfcook your own meals, tidy your own home.
Sincerely,
A woman who isnt looking for a gentleman with a dishcloth 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 advantageI only wanted warmth, a cosy home, a womans touch
But then I wondered: What if she was right? Was I, without realising, seeking 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 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 first climb out of the pit yourself.
Three months have passed. I still live alone, but now my flat smells of stew. On the balcony, geraniums I planted bloom. On Sundays, I bake apple crumbleMargarets 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 a woman ever sits beside me on that park benchone who seeks not a master, but simply conversationIll surely speak to her. Only now, Ill do so as a different man.
