You’re far too old for my son, his mother declared the moment I turned forty.
Good heavens! I snapped, slamming my palm onto the table until the teacups leapt. I ordered a honey cake and they brought a chocolate one!
Marion, its not a big deal, David shrugged, scrolling through his phone. A cake is a cake.
Its a huge deal! Your mother is allergic to chocolate; she cant eat it.
Mom doesnt have to eat it. Shes dieting anyway.
David, its my birthday! I wanted everything perfect.
Forty isnt a milestone worth losing your nerves over, he finally looked up. Relax. Guests will arrive, and everyone will have a good time.
I turned to the window. Relax, he said. Easy for him to say. Today I was forty, half a life behind me, and David didnt seem to grasp why it mattered so much.
I stared at my reflection in the glasstired eyes, a few laugh lines, the first silver strands. Forty felt like a warning sign.
Evening brought the guests: two dozen friends, colleagues, and relatives. David and his mother arrived last. Evelyn Harper entered with a sour look, handing me a bouquet.
Happy birthday.
Thank you, Evelyn.
Forty already, eh? Time flies.
It does, I managed a strained smile.
Evelyn drifted into the dining room, examined the spread.
Chocolate cake? I dont eat chocolate.
I know, Im sorryit was a mixup at the bakery. We did get a Napoleon, especially for you.
Napoleon, alright.
She sank onto the sofa, scanning the room. I watched her frown at my friend Sophie in a bright dress, see her purse her lips when another colleague laughed loudly.
The party rolled ontoast after toast, cheerful wishes, dancing. I forced a smile, but inside I felt hollow. At forty, what had I achieved? A modest accounting job at a small firm, marriage at thirtyfive, no children.
When the last guests left, David helped clear the table in silence. Evelyn lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to the television.
David, could you drive my mother home? I asked.
Just a moment, Im finishing up.
Dont rush, Evelyn interjected. Id like to have a word with you both.
David and I exchanged uneasy looks.
What about? he asked.
Your life together. Sit down.
We obeyed. She switched off the TV and faced us.
Marion, youre forty today.
Yes, I said, wary.
Thats a lot for a woman, especially one married to a younger man.
A knot tightened in my chest. David furrowed his brows.
Mom, what are you getting at?
Im saying youre too old for my son.
Silence fell. I stared at Evelyn, unable to believe what I heard.
What? I demanded.
Youre forty, hes thirtysix. Four years older. Its wrong.
Enough! David leapt up.
Ive been silent for five years, but today I had to speak. Marion, youre a good woman, but not for David.
Why? I asked, voice trembling.
Because youre old. You cant bear children. David wants children.
We could adopt
Adopt? I want my own grandchildren, not adopted ones!
Stop, Mother! You have no right to speak like that!
I have the right! Im his mother, and I want the best for him!
Youre the best for him, Marion! David retorted.
The present may be fine, but in five years, when shes fortyfive and youll be fortyone, youll be in your prime, and shell be fading.
I rose, legs trembling, and clutched the kitchen table for support. Breathing felt heavy.
Mother, leave! Davids voice cut through. Right now!
The door slammed. The house fell quiet, the November sky outside growing dark and damp.
David slipped behind me, hugging me tightly.
Im sorry. My mother has lost her mind.
Shes right, I whispered. Im old. You need a younger wife who can give you children.
No, he said fiercely. I love you exactly as you are.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, but Evelyns words lingered like a seed.
I first met David at a corporate party. A friend from an advertising agency had invited me; I was thirtyfour, freshly divorced, trying to pick up the pieces. He approached, tall and athletic, with an easy grin, and asked me to dance. We talked, laughed, and he made me feel young again.
When I learned he was thirtyone, I hesitatedthree years older. He brushed it off: Age is just a number; what matters is whats inside.
Six months later he proposed, and I said yes without a second thought, even though a quiet voice warned me, Youre older; this isnt right.
Evelyn greeted me at the wedding with a cold stare, muttering, Shes not young enough; you should have a twentyfiveyearold bride.
David simply replied, I want Marion.
Our marriage was modest. We rented a flat, saved for a house, both worked hard. I was told my fertility was low; doctors said my chances were slim because of my age. I wept in the clinic, and David comforted me: Well adopt if you want.
But Evelyns relentless doubts gnawed at me. I drifted through days like a fog, work, home, repeat. My friend Sophie called one evening.
Marion, how are you? Youve been quiet since your birthday.
Just exhausted.
Is your motherinlaw getting on your nerves again?
She said Im too old for David, that I cant have children, that Ill soon wither away.
What? Shes sixtyeight! Youre in your prime! Sophie exclaimed. Look at all the women over forty who are thrivingcareer, children, love!
Im older than him
Thats nothing. Age is just a number. Youre smart, beautiful, independent. David loves you. Thats all that matters.
Her words steadied me, but Evelyns accusations still felt like a splinter.
Later, an old schoolmate ran into me in a shop.
Marion! Hows life?
Fine, and you?
Grandchildren alreadytwo!
I felt a pang.
Back home, I examined my reflectiondeeper lines around my eyes, a slight sag on my neck, veins on my hands. Age was whispering.
What are you thinking about? David asked, entering the bedroom.
About age.
Again? Enough, Marion!
My motherinlaw is right.
No, she isnt!
David, look at me. Im forty, Im aging, and youre still young!
Im thirtysix, not exactly a spring chicken either.
Youre a man; age suits you. Women.
Marion, stop. He took my shoulders. I married you for your mind, your humour, your kindness. Not for numbers.
What about children?
Ive accepted that we wont have any. I dont need them to be happy. I need you.
Tears fell; he held me, rubbing my hair. That night I lay awake, fearing the day David might want a younger wife who could bear children.
The next morning I called Evelyn, arranging to meet at her flat on the outskirts of town. The apartment smelled of mothballs and old medicine. She offered me a seat opposite her worn armchair.
I want to ask, I began, do you really think Im too old for David?
Yes, she said bluntly.
Why?
Because youre forty, hes thirtysix. Youre on the decline, hes in his prime.
But we love each other.
Love fades. What remains is a home, children, responsibilities. You wont have children.
We could adopt.
Adopted children arent blood. I want my own grandchildren.
Are you hoping well split up? I asked.
She paused. I want him with a young, healthy woman who can give him children. You have maybe twenty or thirty years left.
I dont know.
Im ninety now, and Id rather see my son with someone who can bear him offspring.
I stood, thanking her for her honesty, and left. Rain pattered as I walked back, her words echoing.
That evening David asked, Where have you been?
Your motherinlaw.
What did she say?
That Im too old, that youll need a younger wife.
His face went pale. She said that?
I heard her word for word.
He whispered, Shes jealous of our happiness.
Maybe shes right? I asked, voice trembling.
No! Marion, I love you. Age means nothing.
Maybe youll want someone else later.
I wont. Not all men think that way.
We argued, he stormed out, and we spent the next days speaking little. He left early for work, returned late, ate in silence.
Finally, I gathered the courage.
David, we need to talk.
What about? he asked without looking up.
Our future. Im thinking maybe youre rightmaybe we should part, so you can have the family you want.
He dropped his phone. What?
Im serious. You deserve a younger wife, children, a full family. I cant give that.
He stood, took my hands. When I met you, I was thirtyone. Id dated many younger, prettier women, but none felt right. Its not about looks or age; its about the person inside.
What about children?
Ive made peace with not having them. If I wanted, we could adopt, but Im happy with you as we are.
His sincerity softened me.
Months passed; Evelyn stopped bringing up my age. David confronted her, insisting she respect his wife. I gradually stopped obsessing over numbers, realizing age is just a digit.
One afternoon I saw an elderly couple strolling handinhand in the park, both well into their seventies, laughing and sharing a blanket. The husband adjusted his partners scarf; she giggled and leaned into him. Their love seemed effortless, unburdened by years.
I turned to David later that night.
Thank you.
For what?
For loving me just as I am.
Ill love you at forty, at fifty, at eighty.
Do you promise?
I promise.
I believed him. Evelyns disapproval no longer mattered; I chose to trust myself. I signed up for ballroom classes, started an evening course in French, even dyed my hair a fresh shade. I blossomed anew.
David admired me, saying, Youre radiant.
I smiled, finally feeling truly beautiful.
The lesson I learned is simple: a number on a birth certificate does not define worth. Society may try to tell us were too old, too thin, too much, but those words only hold power if we let them. True freedom comes from believing in our own value, regardless of age, appearance, or anyone elses expectations.
One year later, on my fortyfirst birthday, David gave me a simple silver bracelet.
For being you.
I slipped it on, looked at the man I love, and whispered, Im happy.
He answered, Me too.
And that was enough.
