At nearly sixty, I’ve never been married or had children, but now I’m ready: six months ago, I met a woman who’s made me want to change my life.
I’ve never felt old. Truth be told, I’ve never quite felt like a proper adult either, despite turning 59 not long ago. So what? In my heart, I’m still that same bloke from uni days, with the same hobbies and the same mates—the rare few life hasn’t scattered across the globe, as it usually does.
I’ve never been married. Women have always noticed me, if I’m honest. And money’s never been an issue. When you live alone, you learn to rely on yourself—no crying kids, no tired wife making demands. No nappies to change or endless complaints to endure.
No, I don’t have children. And at this point, I likely never will. But I’ve never seen that as a problem. I’m no king or great philosopher desperate to leave a legacy. There are millions like me. And I’ve never felt bitter or regretful about it.
Kids in care homes are no less worthy. So why don’t more childless couples rush to give them a family? But I suppose I’m getting off track.
Six months ago, Patricia came into my life. A remarkable woman—beautiful, clever. Like me, she’s been on her own for years. A widow. Spent her whole life with one man. And as she admitted herself, it was good at first, truly. Then came the grind, the monotony, the indifference. Just like it does for so many.
Patricia never wanted children. Or rather, she didn’t want them raised by a father like hers. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Afraid of gossip from family, whispers from neighbours. I’ve always believed you shouldn’t shape your life around others’ expectations. But we’re all different…
For the first time in decades, I’m wondering—should I take the leap? Patricia is the kind of woman I’d gladly spend the rest of my days with. I’ve got a cosy flat. She’s got her own place too, which she could rent out and spend the earnings on her own pleasures. I’ve no issue with that.
But there’s one thing I haven’t brought up with her yet. A prenup—keeping our assets separate.
I know life too well. We don’t improve with age, not in body or soul. And if I’m being brutally honest, what scares me most isn’t growing old—it’s betrayal, greed.
I’ve seen how easily a woman can take advantage of a man. Not because she’s wicked. It’s just the way of the world—plenty are used to taking without giving back. I learned that young. And every year since has only confirmed it.
So I want to protect myself. If we ever part, I want us to walk away with our own homes, our own lives. I’m not looking to buy a new house or hand over everything I own.
There are two cars in my garage. I’m happy to pay for meals, clothes, holidays—because I want to, not because I’m obliged. But if Patricia ever decides to leave, I won’t let it turn into a fight over possessions.
People change. And she’s already known what it’s like to fall out of love…
My mates tell me not to rush. To get to know her properly, live together for at least a year. I get that. But lately, when Patricia jokes that we’re acting like teenagers hiding a fling, something tightens in my chest—like my pride’s been nudged.
Maybe I’m too suspicious. Or maybe living alone so long has made me too protective of my own space.
I know some of you are wiser than me. Maybe someone’s got advice for a man facing this choice for the first time in his life.
I believe Patricia’s the one. But I also know I could be wrong. That love doesn’t always spare you pain. And at my age, mistakes cut deeper.
What do you do when you’re nearly sixty, staring down your first real leap into the unknown? I don’t know. But I do know this—it’s time to act.
Either trust my heart. Or retreat back into my quiet, familiar solitude for good.
In the end, we’ve all got to decide—do we risk love, or settle for safety? Because waiting too long might mean missing out on both.