I Moved in with a Man I Met at a Retreat, and the Kids Said I Was Being Silly

I live with a man I met at a health resort. Before I can tell anyone, my daughter texts: Mum, I heard youve moved out. Is this a joke? I freeze. Yesterday we were chatting about an applecake recipe, and now her tone is cold and accusatory.

I reply that everythings fine and that well talk soon, but she never responds. I realise that, for her, this isnt good newsits a scandal.

Meanwhile, I sit at the kitchen table in his flat in Manchester, the air smelling of fresh coffee and pine from the open balcony, while he gently holds my hand. We met three months ago, and what happened between us was far from fleeting.

It all started with a simple question at dinner in the resort: Does this soup seem a bit salty to you, madam? I looked at him, smiled, and everything rushes forward. We take walks together, stay up talking late, exchange phone numbers. When I get home I think its just a pleasant episode, but then he calls. And he calls again.

We start meeting upfirst in cafés, then he invites me to his garden plot. Theres something there that Ive missed for years: warmth, interest, attention. Ive been a widow for seven years, spending most of that time in other peoples shadowschildren, grandchildren, neighbours, doctors, pharmacistsnever my own feelings.

Suddenly I realize I still feel something. Someone could hold me so that the years, the wrinkles, the loneliness melt away. One day he says, I have a spare room. You can stay for a few days, or longer if you like. I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach that I knew as a young girl, the certainty that this is the right place. I pack quietly, avoiding any fuss, not wanting to explain to the kids.

For me its a decision of the heart; for them its a whim. When my daughter stops replying, I try to call; she rejects the call.

My son asks coolly, Mum, what are you doing? Then adds, People are talking. Someone your age doesnt behave like that. I try to joke, What age, love? Im only sixtysix! He doesnt get it.

To them the only thing that matters is that Im not where Im supposed to beat home, ready for a call, available at any moment, ready to look after a grandchild or send a bank transfer. They start insulting me, then guilttripping. You were always responsible. Now you act like a teenager! You cant just run off! What will people think?

I tell them I dont live for other people. After that the situation worsens. The grandchildren stop calling, I dont get an invitation to the youngests birthday, and my heart aches. Yet I do not return.

Here, in this little cottage with a fragrant garden, with a man who makes me coffee every morning and says, Good morning, beautiful, I finally feel like myselfnot a grandmother, not an old lady, just me.

One evening I look at him and ask, Do you think the children will ever understand? He shrugs. I dont know. But I know youve understood yourself, and thats what matters. I cry that nightnot from sadness but from being moved.

I dont know how the story will continue. They may come back, or they may not. But I know no one ever has the right to tell me its too late for love, that romance belongs only to the young.

I feel young right now. It isnt easy to be happy when others oppose it, but it is still happinessreal, earned.

The children have their own lives. The grandchildren grow up. Perhaps one day theyll see me not as someone who did something wrong, but as a woman brave enough to be herself.

And if anyone ever asks whether I regret anything, Ill say the only regret is that I waited so long. Its never too late to fall in love again.