At 60, My Husband Abandoned Me to Start a Family with a Younger Woman: Lessons I’ve Gained from the Experience.
“Sixty was the age of leaving the house and returning for the car keys, the age of ‘have you seen my glasses?’ Who left a marriage at this point?”
Finding love anew at 47 and entering into a second marriage at 52 felt like a miracle, albeit a somewhat intimidating one.
Yet, on reflection, falling in love has always been an extraordinary and nerve-wracking experience.
We attended to each other in small, insignificant ways: I, leaving a water glass on his nightstand; he, replenishing my coffee while I wrote in the morning.
We frequently connected through touch, a silent language that conveyed, “I’m here. I’m here.” I never questioned that we would grow old together, holding hands, experiencing even more fulfilling intimacy, embarking on adventures around the world, and, eventually, far into the distant future, facing our mortality side by side.
However, at the age of 60, my husband startled me by revealing his desire to have a child with a younger woman.
Instantly, my hips broadened, my breasts lost their youthful firmness, and the lines on my face etched deeper. Every internalized belief and societal notion of becoming an aged, unneeded, and insignificant woman seemed to manifest within me.
A few years earlier, I had initiated discussions about mortality. It wasn’t an obsession, but rather a practical acknowledgment. Though I didn’t have any specific illness, I was conscious of the finite nature of my existence—not in the sense that I might be hit by a bus tomorrow (statistically improbable, right?), but in the realization that my past outweighed my future. I wanted to ensure our wills were in order, complete medical proxy forms, and understand his preferences for his funeral—burial or cremation, my dear? Did he prefer all lifesaving measures or did he wish not to be resuscitated? I needed to attend to these particulars so that, God forbid, if something happened unexpectedly, my last moments wouldn’t be consumed by regret over unfinished tasks.
My husband avoided discussions about growing old and facing mortality. He resisted making choices about burial or cremation, and he was reluctant to even contemplate the subject. Despite the fact that death is a universal human experience, it felt like a direct challenge to him, a sentiment I could understand because I shared it. We were both navigating the uncharted territory of aging, akin to learning a new sport, and we were both fumbling through it with trepidation and a sense of inadequacy. My only desire was to handle the necessary paperwork and revert to the belief that we would happily spend the remainder of our lives together.
Aging has no one-size-fits-all approach. Some of us grapple with the sadness of vanishing youth, while others attempt to maintain vitality through relentless exercise. Some embrace risks, leaping out of planes or embracing new careers that once intimidated them. Many crowd their calendars with endless doctor’s appointments, while some are weighed down by regrets.
I, too, had purchased moisturizers, miraculous anti-wrinkle creams, and exercise regimens that promised to battle flabbiness and defy gravity. I devoured articles offering tips on clothing and hairstyles that could disguise the unmistakable signs of aging. I engaged in mental exercises like sudoku in an attempt to ward off forgetfulness.
My husband made the surprising choice to become a father for the first time.
I never anticipated this turn of events.
At sixty, life was characterized by moments like leaving the house only to return for forgotten car keys, constantly searching for misplaced glasses, and facing unexpected, unwelcome medical diagnoses. Who would contemplate ending a marriage at this stage?
As it turns out, quite a number of people do.
The divorce rate for individuals aged 50 and above in the United States is nearly twice what it was in the 1990s, and they even have a designated term for this demographic: “silver splitters.”
It’s disheartening.
In my younger years, I often fretted about the challenges of aging. My worries ranged from cognitive decline and forgetting my children’s names to relying on strangers for personal care, grappling with mobility issues in my hips or knees, or never managing to stay awake until the end of a story.
I asked my friends about their future plans: “Are you planning to age in place or consider community living? What’s the game plan?” My voice betrayed a hint of panic as I posed these questions. I couldn’t fathom how I’d respond if ever faced with the prospect of surrendering my car keys.
However, all this meticulous planning proved to be in vain. I didn’t have the luxury of selecting from my idealized menu of aging options. It was a case of “Man plans, and God laughs,” as the old Yiddish saying goes. God was indeed having a hearty laugh, while I found myself grappling with the challenge of envisioning the rest of my life without my husband.
This new phase of life demanded a shift in mindset. With everything having unraveled and propelled me onto an unforeseen path, I pondered the idea of treating aging as an adventure, akin to journeying to a foreign land. Who could predict the direction I’d take or the discoveries I’d make along the way? Picture how radiant I might become if I embraced my imperfections like the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, mending shattered pottery with gold and silver. What if, instead of turning away, I gazed at my future—no matter how divergent it was now destined to be—with wonder?
With this altered perspective, whole new realms of possibilities unveiled themselves.
When my youngest son, born of my first marriage, became engaged, he inquired, “Mom, do you still have faith in love and marriage?”
I needed a moment to collect my thoughts—he had witnessed both of my divorces. Each person we love takes a part of us, and sometimes they can be reckless, forgetful of caution, indulge in excess, scale treacherous cliffs, or otherwise be negligent.
People pass away. They lose their affection for one another. They depart.
We experience grief.
The sole way to elude this sorrow is to evade love altogether. However, that is an exceedingly difficult way to exist.
“Yes,” I replied. “I still do.” I paused and added, “But love alone isn’t sufficient — you must also possess courage.”
An unexpected transformation occurred as I navigated the grief of my husband’s departure. I realized that I genuinely enjoyed the experience of living on my own. I rediscovered my connection with myself. Naturally, conveying the idea of being content in solitude without sounding like I was trying to convince myself that low-fat yogurt is just as tasty as ice cream proved to be challenging. Nevertheless, there was a sense of fulfillment in aligning myself with my own aspirations and the people I hold dear.
People in my circle have started to inquire, “Are you dating anyone?” I comprehended their intent—it was a way of encouraging me to move forward.
A satisfying resolution to this tale of love lost might entail me encountering a new love. It wasn’t an entirely undesirable thought. I have an enduring fondness for love. I’m the same woman who watches romantic comedies and remains a firm believer.
My friends and family would likely feel reassured if I were to fall in love once more. They would cease picturing extended, solitary nights for me. Perhaps the only ones who wouldn’t be concerned about my relationship status are my grandchildren, and I appreciate them for that.
My ex-husband and I have opted for contrasting approaches to aging.
Perhaps I couldn’t leap as high, and conversations from the previous week occasionally left me drawing blanks. Nonetheless, I cherished the moments when I could sit and listen to my granddaughter recount her meandering nightmare.
Yesterday, I found myself seated on the floor, engrossed in playing with cars and dinosaurs alongside my 2-year-old grandson. Half in jest, I remarked, “I’m not quite sure how to stand up.”
“Like this, Nonna,” he replied, demonstrating by placing his hands on the floor and lifting his bottom in the air before pushing up.
I burst into laughter so hearty that I tumbled over.
My body may not function as it once did, but I remained determined not to let embarrassment or shame hinder me. I was resolute in my commitment to continue joining in on the floor and playing with cars, even if it meant adopting a rather undignified posture to rise back up.
I am honing my abilities for this unfamiliar territory. I am acquiring the skill of requesting assistance and becoming more graceful in receiving it. I am becoming proficient at admitting when I don’t know something or when I’m uncertain. I strive to acknowledge my mistakes and offer apologies (though it’s a lesson I probably should have learned earlier, but it’s never too late). I have made a commitment to self-care: resting when fatigued, spending more time outdoors, and refraining from crafting daily to-do lists that would realistically take three days to complete.
I am in the process of coming to terms with the fact that I cannot create happiness for anyone else. I can share moments of joy and wonder, crack jokes, and join in laughter, but I cannot instill a sense of inner peace in someone else. Despite my extensive experience as a therapist and a parent, I recognize that I cannot shield people from suffering. I can be present for my children, grandchildren, friends, and patients. I can lend a listening ear, offer a comforting presence, provide encouragement, and support them through difficult times. I can advocate on their behalf and help them access resources. However, finding a sense of well-being is an internal journey that they must undertake for themselves.
And, naturally, the same principle applies to me.
I have released the notion that I alone can make a significant impact and solve the world’s problems. While I engage in actions such as recycling, participating in protests, and making donations, I acknowledge that I may not possess all the answers for protecting endangered species, drawing global attention to climate change, eradicating poverty, ending child abuse, promoting peace, or dismantling racism. Nonetheless, I remain eager to learn and contribute in my own small way.
I find solace in life’s simple pleasures—admiring daffodils, cultivating beans for sustenance, revisiting my novel from the depths of a drawer. At work, I summoned the courage to request a raise, and I succeeded. I focus on the melodious birdsong in the early morning light.
Despite the evident signs of aging, strangers often greet me with smiles and hellos. I like to think they’re appreciating an older woman who exudes vitality and enthusiasm.
I still hold onto a self-image of a poised and attractive woman, so it surprises me when I encounter a photo of myself as a slower-moving, gray-haired version. I reassure myself with the thought that I’ve never been particularly photogenic.
I opt to embrace these two comforting illusions: the belief that I don’t photograph well and the idea that strangers hold me in admiration. There are certainly worse delusions to entertain. I could choose to believe that I have the power to control the world, or that I should, and perpetually feel upset when things don’t unfold as I had envisioned. I could adopt the delusion that by the age of 70, the world owes me something, and then grow frustrated when it doesn’t deliver. I could even cling to the delusion that aging and the inevitability of death do not apply to me, only to be horrified by the natural process. There are numerous delusions I could embrace that would leave me feeling resentful and fearful.
Instead, I opt to cultivate a sense of grace, love, and the belief that strangers I encounter on the street are genuinely wishing me well in their hearts.
