I recently turned sixty. It’s a strange age — you’re not truly old, but you’re definitely no longer young. And at this stage of life, the hardest part isn’t wrinkles, or fatigue, or minor health issues…
it’s loneliness.

You wake up in the morning and realize there’s no one to speak to. The day drifts by in quiet emptiness. In the evening, you long to feel even a trace of human presence — but only the silent walls answer you.

My husband and I divorced years ago. Back then, I still believed life had something new in store. My son lives abroad with his own family, responsibilities, and concerns.
And I… was left completely alone.

“Find someone, for heaven’s sake!” my friend kept telling me.
“Where?” I would answer irritably. “Where am I supposed to look? Men my age look exhausted, bitter, defeated. They don’t want a partner — they want a caretaker!”
My friend just smiled:
“Then find someone younger. You still look wonderful, you know.”

I didn’t take her words seriously — but they stayed with me.
And then one day, as if fate had arranged it, I met him.

He was forty-five. Tall, confident, well-groomed. Divorced. He worked in a small company repairing electronics. He seemed gentle, attentive, respectful.
In his eyes, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: genuine interest. He looked at me as a woman — not as someone meant to serve or care for him.

We started meeting more often. Long walks, endless conversations, shared dinners. With him, I laughed again. I wanted to look nice, to feel alive. I felt myself awakening.

A few weeks later, he began staying over more frequently. And then, one evening, he said:

“Why keep two places? We’re always together anyway. I could move in with you.”

I was stunned.
Me — who believed she wasn’t desirable anymore.
Me — who had felt invisible for years.

And now a younger man wanted to share my home?

I agreed.

The first weeks were beautiful. My house felt alive again. His voice filled the rooms, his footsteps echoed in the hallway. I no longer ate alone, no longer fell asleep in an empty bed.
I truly thought life had given me a second chance.

But that illusion didn’t last long.

He started mentioning small problems: money delays at work, unexpected bills, car trouble. Sometimes he borrowed a little — “I’ll pay you back next month, I promise.”
It didn’t alarm me; anyone can have difficulties.

Then the stories grew heavier: debts, threats from creditors, fear of losing his apartment.
And one evening, with a timid, ashamed expression, he said:

“I hate to ask this… but could you help me for a while? Just until things get better.”

I felt sorry for him. And I believed him.

And then came the day that shattered everything.

He left the house but forgot to end a phone call. His phone stayed on the table — and suddenly I heard his voice, but not the gentle one I knew. This voice was cold, calculating, completely different:

“Yeah, the old lady is totally hooked,” he said. “I’m living at her place, she pays for everything. Soon I’ll tell her I’ve got more problems, and she’ll give me even more.”
A short laugh.
“Why would I leave? Where else would I get a free home, food, and money? I just have to be nice and she hands it all over.”

I froze.
His words cut deeper than any knife.

When he came back, I was waiting for him — calmly.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I simply said:

“Pack your things. You’re leaving today.”

He tried to deny everything, claimed it was a joke, a misunderstanding.
But I had already heard the truth.

This story isn’t about younger men in general.
And it’s not about love being impossible after sixty.

It’s about something far more important:

Never forget your worth — not even when loneliness feels unbearable.
Never allow someone to exploit your longing for closeness and warmth.

I’m no longer afraid of being alone.
I’m only afraid of one thing:

Forgetting, even for a moment, that I deserve respect, honesty, and real love.

And I will never forget that again.