Falling head over heels like a schoolboy when the winter of life is upon me… Now I stand at the edge of an abyss between two lives.
I’m fifty-five. More than half a century behind me, yet here I am, acting like a complete fool. I walk around in a daze, lie awake at night, catch myself grinning for no reason like a lovesick teenager. All because I’ve fallen—not for a neighbor or an old flame, but for a young woman, a beauty with golden curls and laughing eyes, nearly thirty years my junior.
The first time I saw her, my heart skipped. You’d think at my age—with the family, the grandchildren—I’d know better. But inside, it burned like dry grass set alight. I told myself, “One last fling—maybe fate’s parting gift.” When do women like her ever glance twice at men like me?
At first, I didn’t take it seriously. I’d treasure every text, tremble at every call, rush to meet her like a man half my age. Then—I was hooked. It wasn’t just excitement; it became a need. I waited, ached, grew jealous. Started lying to my wife, hiding my phone, sneaking out. All for just the sound of her voice.
My mates, the ones I’ve known since uni, shook their heads. “Have you lost it? She’s young enough to be your daughter! Snap out of it, you old fool!” But I wouldn’t listen. I defended her like a madman, swore this was real love—no games, no schemes. Now, I’m not so sure…
My wife and I have been married thirty-five years. Ours was a love match, though we’ve had our rows, our betrayals. There were times I strayed, and she forgave—for the family, for the children, for us. She’s always stood by me, even when I’ve fallen flat on my face.
Just when life settled—the kids grown, grandchildren arriving, our eldest blessing us with a little lad—here I am, restless. Shouldn’t I be content? Pushing a pram, tending the garden. But no. Grey at the temples, fire in the blood. I’m pulled toward laughter, lightness, the scent of her perfume.
With her, I feel alive. I smile again, want to chase adventures. She makes me feel not like an old bloke, but a man—a man desired. Or so she says… Because deep down, I wonder. Do I mean anything to her, or am I just another fool to be used?
Then the ultimatum came: “Leave your wife, or we’re through. I won’t be second best.” Suddenly, the fantasy cracked. I could no longer pretend to live two lives. Now, I must choose.
But how? How to tell the woman who’s shared my bread, my debts, my joys, my grief? Who stood by me through sleepless nights, through funerals and christenings? How to betray her?
She knows. She watches me, silent. Yesterday, as I sat smoking alone in the garden, she came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and whispered, “Whatever it is… we’ll get through it. Together. Like always.”
I wanted to confess. But I couldn’t. My heart ached with shame. She knows—yet she stays. As she always has.
Now I stand torn—between my life and my dream. One: my wife, the mother of my children, the woman who lifted me from the mud time and again. The other: this reckless love, youth reborn, the scent of coffee and cigarettes at dusk.
Which do I choose? Heart or conscience? The life I know, or the illusion I crave? And if I leave—what if she discards me a year later? Left with nothing. Alone. Old, foolish, pitiful.
I barely recognise myself in the mirror. Lads, if you’ve been here—how do you choose when you love two? Or is this not love at all, just fear of fading?
I don’t know what to do. But I do know this—there’s no delaying the choice. And every step could shatter everything I’ve ever built.
Life’s cruelest lesson? Sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes, the heart wants what it shouldn’t—and the price is all you hold dear.
