When I lost my husband of 46 years on a cold January morning in 2021, I was devastated. We had agreed that if we did not die together, the survivor should seek happiness, but it was hard for me to do anything but grieve. My life felt like it was over.

That summer I broke my leg. Because I couldn’t do much myself, my daughter Vicky, who is also a widow, cared for me. Other than twice daily visits from her to see to my meals and personal needs, I was alone except for my little dogs. 

The days dragged by, lonely and empty.  I read, watched television and tried to retain some sense of self, but I missed my husband so much that I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into a dark pit of depression.

Vicky noticed the depth of my melancholy and suggested I try an online dating site. 

“You could find someone to talk to, and maybe you’d feel better,” she told me.

I wasn’t totally against trying it, but it felt disloyal to my husband. Time continued to hang heavy, though, and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if maybe it would lift my spirits. So I signed up. 

In my naïveté, I posted my actual age of 82, but quickly learned that the cut-off age for a desirable woman seemed to be 80. 

The men who were not scared away by my real age sent some interesting messages. Some asked whether “all my parts still worked.” Others asked about my finances. Some were interested in sex with someone “that old.” Some men wrote ugly, insulting words that I don’t believe they would ever say to a woman in person. They were sad, pitiful men for whom I have no sympathy. There were also funny comments, like when one guy who, upon learning that I don’t eat mammals, seriously asked me, “What’s a mammal?” 

The cast finally came off my leg. Buoyed by my freedom, I decided to stop messaging and go on some real dates.  

I met a man who just stared at me throughout lunch. No matter what I asked or said, my efforts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. Finally, he touched my hair and asked if I was really a redhead. I said yes, but of course it had some “help” now. He looked disgusted. 

Another guy showed up in a dirty t-shirt, muddy athletic shoes and ripped pants and smelled like he was badly in need of a shower. After he learned that I was a veteran, he told me about his own military exploits. He said he thought we had a lot in common, but I couldn’t get past the first impression he’d made. 

When I signed up on the dating site, I set my age parameters to include men who were at least 62 years old but did not list an upper limit. Late one night, my eyes tired from a long day, I misread a guy’s age on his profile as 65. Though I had grown cynical because of all of the mismatches I’d already suffered, I was intrigued by his attractive photo, so I shot off a short introductory message to him. 

I told him that I’m not a “little old lady,” I’ve just lived too long to die young. He liked that, and responded with a humorous comment. His name was Ian, and he made me smile — a first in my great adventure of online dating. 

We texted for a couple of hours that night, and the next day I heard from him again. He was witty without being silly, articulate and interesting. Soon we were messaging several times a day. I looked forward to his cheery “good morning” and sweet “good night, sleep well.” Though I was wary of getting my hopes up — and the potential of being disappointed by another bad date — I agreed to meet him.

Before our date, I went back to look at his profile again, and I realised I had misread it. Ian was 55! He was younger than my daughter — by a lot! OK, he’s not a child, I thought, but he’s too young for me. Then I wondered why would a 55-year-old man be interested in an 82-year-old. Was he one of those guys who had a fetish for sex with older women? Did he want something else from me? Was he really interested in getting to know me in a romantic way? I decided to meet him, have a (hopefully) pleasant meal, and that would be that.

I arrived at the restaurant first and got a table outside. Ian came through the patio door and walked toward me with a big smile. He looked exactly like his photo. I stood to greet him and instead of the usual handshake I was used to receiving on first dates, he folded me in his arms and held me in a warm embrace.

I felt an intense happiness as Ian held me — damn, it felt so good! — and I was immediately at ease with him. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of movies, and I’m a huge fan of cinema, so we instantly had common ground. Soon we were laughing, quoting lines from films, and deep in a discussion of themes, plots, directors and time frames.

Ian was intelligent and humorous. He wasn’t too tall, which I liked, and had broad shoulders, which I loved. And his voice! Ever since I was a child, I have loved the deep baritone epitomised by Texas rodeo announcers. He had that broadcaster voice and I adored it.

After dinner, Ian walked me to my car, but it didn’t feel like he was helping an elderly person — it was as if he was courteously protecting someone who had just recovered from a fractured leg. 

I caught myself smiling as I drove home and then it hit me again: 55. He was 27 years younger than me. But, I reasoned, shouldn’t a 55-year-old man know his own mind? If he was interested in a relationship with a woman my age, who was I to question his judgment? Still — 27 years!

We continued to text every day. He was sweet, interesting, and attentive, and I found myself liking him more and more. 

Maybe it could work, I told myself. After all, Cher is in a relationship with Alexander Edwards, who is 40 years younger than she is. Tina Turner was happy with Erwin Bach, who was 16 years her junior, and Carol Burnett has been married to Brian Miller, 23 years younger than her, since 2001. I also love that Emmanuel Macron, the president of France, is 24 years younger than his wife, first lady Bridgette Macron. 

I met Ian several more times. Each time my happiness intensified. We laughed at the same things — and we laughed a lot. Whenever I experienced his closeness, it stirred me deeply, and I knew he felt the same way.

It didn’t happen overnight, but one morning I found myself humming as I prepared my dogs’ breakfast. Later, on my treadmill, I actually broke into “Save The Last Dance For Me.”

I wondered if we looked unusual when we went out. I watched for people’s reactions. He held my hand in public and no one seemed to care but me.

Did he make me feel young? No, not really — maybe because in my 60’s I had stopped worrying about age. Getting older is a reality, but it does not define us — or at least, I don’t let it define me.

Of course, it can’t last, I told myself. I felt cheerful, but in a state of suspended animation, constantly waiting for disaster. I couldn’t see this ending well. The more I liked Ian, the worse I knew I would feel when our relationship was over. I didn’t think I could handle more hurt. I spent half my time feeling great, and half my time looking for a way to end it.

And then it happened. The disagreement played out over text and I’m not even sure what we were arguing about. Ian had had a hard day at work — hours spent in blistering, blinding Texas heat. I had spent the day wrestling with taxes and a sick animal. We were both short with each other, and he came across as sarcastic. I don’t need this, I fumed. It’s never going to last — get out now! I told myself. We both sent what amounted to a final sign-off.

I immediately felt incredibly conflicted. In some ways I was relieved, as I no longer had to worry about what some people saw as an inappropriate relationship, but I also missed Ian like crazy. I met the perfect guy and I let the years between us come between us. 

Late one evening after I’d had some wine, I decided that life is too damn short to waste.

 “I miss you, sarcastic ass,” I texted to Ian. He responded immediately — and was less mean spirited than I had been: “I miss you too, very much.”

I began to cry tears of hurt, loss, and loneliness. I wanted his strong warm arms around me again. If I was using him to avoid being old and alone, so be it. 

“Come over?” I texted. 

“What — now?” he replied.

“Yes.”

Our relationship has grown since then. We don’t agree on everything, but that makes things interesting. He asked for Vicky’s phone number “in case anything happens while we’re together.” He didn’t have to explain that my age might be cause for concern.

Vicky has been slow to come around, but I know that her reluctance is based on her concern for me. Still, she likes Ian and she sees that he makes me happy, so I try not to worry too much. She and the grandchildren are all the family I have, so her comfort with my relationship is important to me. Time will tell. 

Ian and I are good together. Not necessarily in a happily-ever-after way, but we’re comfortable and contented, where each day brings laughter and love. 

Are we in love? Of course. There are many different kinds of love.

One day not long after meeting, I asked him what he looks for in a relationship. His list was short: honesty, mutual respect and intelligence. “You checked all the boxes before we even met,” he said. “I was glad to see you were hot, too!” 

I asked him if he felt I was using him to get over the loss of my husband.

“Bill Withers said it best: ‘If it feels this good being used, you can use me up,’” he replied. 

And I’m happy to report that yes, all my parts work. Is he sexually attracted to me? When a man comes through your door and starts to take your clothes off all in one motion, the answer is obvious.

I still go through periods of depression because I miss my husband. He was my best friend and a fellow traveler through so much of my life, and sometimes I still feel as though my heart might actually break. I continue to wear my wedding band — it’s a part of me. We were soldiers together, saw the world together, shared our deepest secrets and loved each other unconditionally, warts and all. 

My relationship with Ian brings a different kind of happiness — a sunny epilogue at the end of the story of my life. I truly believe my partner of so many years would smile seeing the joy that I’m experiencing.

I’ve been with Ian for a year-and-a half. The end of this story has yet to be written, but it is a good story — and a true one. One day it will end, as all things must. But for now, I’m glad I made the decision to accept what life has offered me. With the passing of my husband, life gave me lemons. And now, with Ian, I’m making strawberry margaritas.

Note: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals mentioned in this essay.

Sue Hunter is a retired soldier, college instructor and sixth generation Texan, who lives amid the cactus, bluebonnets and beauty of Texas with an ever-changing population of independent and highly intelligent animals, both wild and domestic. She enjoys the outdoors, motorcycles, driving with her convertible top down, good wine and bad beer (not that there is any).