At fifty-five, I should know better. A lifetime behind me, yet here I am, acting like a lovestruck fool—sleepless, wandering in a daze, grinning like a schoolboy. All because of her. Not some neighbor or old flame, but a young woman with golden curls and laughing eyes, nearly thirty years my junior.
The first time I saw her, my heart stuttered. At my age, with grandchildren and a marriage of thirty-five years, it should’ve been absurd. But no—it burned through me like a match to dry grass. I told myself, *One last fling, maybe fate’s final gift.* Since when do women like her smile at men like me?
At first, it was a game. Every text set my pulse racing; every call sent me running to meet her, light as air. Then it wasn’t just fun—it was air itself. I *needed* her. Started lying to my wife, hiding my phone, sneaking out. All for a single *“Hello.”*
My mates—blokes I’ve known since university—think I’ve lost the plot. *“She’s young enough to be your daughter! Pull yourself together, you daft old sod!”* But I wouldn’t listen. I defended her like a madman, swore this was *real* love, not some gold-digger’s scheme. Now? Now I’m not so sure.
My wife and I built a life. We married for love, weathered storms, even my stupid mistakes. She stood by me, always. And just when things settled—kids grown, grandchildren toddling about—I go and wreck it. Instead of pushing swings or tending roses, I’m chasing perfume and careless laughter.
With *her*, I feel alive. Not some greying grandad, but a man wanted, desired. Or so she says. What if it’s all an act? What if I’m just another foolish old wallet to her?
Then she dropped the ultimatum: *“Leave your wife, or we’re through. I won’t be second.”* No more pretending. Now it’s one road or the other.
But how do I walk away? How do I tell the woman who’s shared my bread, my debts, my joys, my grief? Who stood by me through it all?
She knows. Last evening, as I sat smoking in the garden, she wrapped her arms around me and whispered, *“Whatever it is… we’ll get through it. Like we always do.”*
I almost confessed. Almost. But the words choked me. She *knows*. And still, she holds on.
Now I’m torn. My wife—steady, loyal, the mother of my children. Or *her*—wild youth, coffee-stained sunsets, the illusion that I’m still young.
What’s real? What’s fear? If I choose her, will she stay? Or will I end up alone, a pitiful old fool?
I don’t recognize myself anymore. My reflection’s a stranger. Any step I take could shatter everything. No right choices—just wreckage.