**Diary Entry**
I must be losing my mind, but at fifty-six, I’ve decided to get married.
My heart pounded with a mix of exhilaration and doubt when I realised I was standing on the brink of a new life at this age. I have a grown-up daughter—bright, beautiful, a successful solicitor at a prestigious firm in Manchester. She’s my pride, though I’ve never been able to introduce her to her real father. That wound still aches, a constant reminder of a past filled with unfulfilled hopes.
It all started during my university days in Newcastle. That’s where I met him—Antonio, an Italian who’d come to study English. His dark eyes and warm smile captivated me instantly. We met at a student party, and sparks flew between us. I showed him around the city, wandering for hours down cobbled streets, feeling like the heroine of some romantic film. Even now, I adore Italy—my daughter and I have travelled it from top to bottom—but back then, our romance was fleeting, like a spring breeze. Antonio left, and I stayed behind with news that turned my life upside down: I was pregnant.
I was only twenty, terrified, but my parents stood by me. Even my father, usually so stern, was overjoyed at the thought of a granddaughter. And so, my Emily—my sunshine—came into the world. With my parents’ help, I finished uni, got a job, and life carried on. But marriage never happened. I dedicated myself to Emily and my career.
Then, six months ago, fate threw me a surprise. I met Edward—a man who made my heart race. Our meeting was ridiculous, almost comical. I’d nipped into a little corner shop near my home for groceries. At the till, I realised I’d forgotten the coffee—my morning ritual. Abandoning my basket, I dashed back to the aisle, oblivious to the irritation of the man behind me. He scowled but said nothing. I paid and left, only to hear footsteps behind me moments later. It was him—holding a bar of chocolate with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, long day at work, snapped a bit,” he said, and we got talking. That was the start of us.
Edward was extraordinary—a curator at the local history museum, well-read, a lover of classical music and theatre. Divorced, grown children living their own lives. We went to exhibitions, plays, and suddenly, I realised how long it’d been since I’d allowed myself such pleasures. With him, I felt alive, young, desired again. We talked about music, art, books, and I caught myself thinking—I hadn’t been this happy in years.
Six months flew by, and one day, Edward proposed. I said yes without hesitation. Maybe because I’d never been married. Maybe because I was tired of being alone. But in that moment, it felt right. We filed the paperwork, and Edward moved into my flat in Manchester. We decided to live together before the wedding, to adjust—but that’s when the problems I hadn’t anticipated began.
Years of solitude had shaped my habits, small things that defined my days. My morning coffee, the window cracked open at night, silence while I got ready for work. But with Edward here, everything changed. Suddenly, I felt like a stranger in my own home. He, it turned out, wasn’t keen on changing his ways either. And his snoring—good Lord, the snoring! I’ve always been a light sleeper, the faintest noise jolting me awake, leaving me tossing till dawn. But his snoring? Like thunder in a clear sky. I’d wake, heart hammering, blood pressure soaring, head splitting by morning. Pure torture.
Another thing—I love sleeping with the window open, fresh air, but Edward insists it’s too cold. He shuts it, and I lie there suffocating, unable to sleep. We argue, and each time, I feel my freedom slipping away in these mundane battles. Never thought such trivialities could build a wall between two people who love each other.
Mornings? Another trial. Before, I’d brew coffee, maybe nibble toast, savour the quiet with the telly murmuring the news. Now Edward comments on every headline, every sip I take. “You ought to eat something more substantial,” he’ll say, and I feel like a scolded child. My morning ritual’s ruined, and I miss those days of just being me.
But worst of all? His at-home attire. Outside, Edward’s the picture of elegance—always sharp. But at home? Frayed jumpers, threadbare trousers he calls “comfortable.” No idea where he digs up these rags, but they set my teeth on edge. This invasion of my space, my carefully built life—it rankles.
Now I sit here wondering—did I rush this? Emily urges me to give it time, says we’ll rub along. But I’m fifty-six. I don’t want to bend myself out of shape for anyone, no matter how good they are. Edward’s wonderful, clever, kind—yet I catch myself thinking more and more that solitude wasn’t so bad.
I’m afraid we won’t mesh, that these little things will corrode what we have, like rust. Still, somewhere deep down, I hope we’ll find a way. Or maybe—just maybe—I truly have gone mad, thinking marriage at this age was a good idea.
**Lesson:** Love’s easy in theory; it’s the day-to-day living that tests it. Compromise is the price of companionship—but sometimes, you wonder if the cost’s too high.