“I don’t want to get married—I don’t need extra problems at this stage of life.
I’m 56. For two years now, I’ve been living with a man I love, someone who brings me peace. But lately, he keeps bringing up the same question: ‘Why don’t we get married?’ And the more he asks, the more I realise I don’t just *not* want it—I’m afraid of it. At this age, after weathering life’s storms, you don’t dream of a wedding as some fairy tale. You want stability, warmth, and simplicity. Marriage, though? That’s responsibility, paperwork, property rights, grown children’s resentment, and endless ‘what ifs.’ And I’m tired of ‘what if.’
His name is Edward. He’s five years older than me. We met by chance—at a spa retreat where I was recovering from a serious illness. At first, it was easy: long walks, late-night conversations, trips to nearby towns, sharing the same dry humour. Then real life set in. He moved into my three-bedroom flat, which I inherited from my parents. My son’s grown, working in London. My daughter’s at university and still lives with me. Edward’s divorced too. He has two daughters from his first marriage, both studying, living with their mother.
We share our lives—household chores, holidays, weekends away—but we keep our finances separate. He has his pension, his car. I’ve got the flat, a cottage in the Cotswolds, savings, and a car I bought with my own wages. Edward helps his daughters—sometimes more than he should. I support mine too, but I try to teach her independence.
Everything’s settled between us. No shouting matches, no drawn-out arguments. We each have our own space. But now he wants that stamp in his passport. And I don’t.
Not because I don’t love him. But because I’ve been married before. It ended badly—screaming matches, property battles, court dates, humiliation. My ex-husband tried to take the flat I’d spent years saving for, playing the wounded victim. It took me years to trust again after that.
Now Edward keeps saying, ‘Why won’t you marry me?’ He doesn’t understand. And I can’t explain without hurting him.
I don’t want my home, my work, my life becoming a bargaining chip if things go wrong. We’re not kids. We won’t have children together. We’re not starting from scratch—we’ve already built our lives. Why wreck it now?
Then there’s my children. They’ve never said a word against Edward, but I see how my daughter keeps her distance, polite though she is. My son barely acknowledges him. If we married, the questions would start. ‘What if he claims rights to the flat?’ ‘What if Mum transfers assets to him?’ Life’s hard enough for them as it is. Eventually, I’d like to sell the flat, downsize to a cosy one-bedder, and give the rest to my kids—help with a mortgage or a decent rental. Marriage would complicate all that. It’d become ‘joint property.’
I don’t want paperwork. I don’t want court battles if things sour. I just want to live with the man I love, knowing he’s with me—not for the roof, not for security, not out of fear of being alone.
Lately, though, Edward’s changed. He’s withdrawn, brooding, accusing me of ‘not loving him.’ He’s turned brittle, making snide comments about me ‘playing it safe.’ It cuts deep. I’m with him out of love, pure and simple. I just don’t want a wedding.
We’re not starry-eyed twenty-somethings, thinking a piece of paper changes anything. It doesn’t. It only adds complications. At our age, love isn’t about rings or surnames. It’s the hand that steadies you when you stumble. It’s sitting in comfortable silence, watching telly, knowing they’re there—and feeling at peace.
But Edward thinks without that stamp, I’m not serious. And I wonder: maybe *this* is real maturity—loving without contracts or conditions.
I don’t know how our story ends. Maybe he’ll leave in a huff. Maybe he’ll understand. But I won’t bend. I’ve lived too much to lose myself in someone else’s expectations again. I want quiet, respect, peace of mind—not legal wrangling and a husband on paper.
I don’t need a title. I need the man. And if he can’t see that, then perhaps he’s not the one I’ve been waiting for.”