My husband and I never had that conversation. The one where he urged me to be open to the possibility of meeting someone else after his death. It’s not, I am sure, that he wanted me to be alone for ever. Rather that he couldn’t bear to acknowledge the fact that he was dying, leaving me and his beloved children behind. I completely understand that, but I would love to have had his blessing. I thought Michael and I had many good years ahead, watching our children grow older and more independent. Life had other ideas.
Michael was diagnosed with oesophageal cancer in 2017 at the age of 52, and in April 2019, after 18 months of gruelling treatment, he took his last breath. The final six months of his life were very hard. Caring for the person I loved, seeing him in terrible pain and knowing he was going to die was a special kind of hell. I was grieving for someone who was still there, someone who needed me to be strong and never crumble. On top of that, I was trying to keep everything as normal as I could for our sons, Charlie, then 12, and Arthur, nine.
After Michael died, my focus was entirely on making sure things were stable for my children and trying to make up for the previous year, when they’d had to miss out on so much due to their dad’s illness. I took them on holiday to Crete, where we swam, sunbathed and ate ice cream. Almost every day we went out on a banana boat and, while we were swung around on our inflatable yellow sofa, with us screaming as salt water sprayed into our faces and the sky above us being impossibly blue, I remember very clearly thinking “I’m alive”. It was a visceral realisation that life was something precious and not to be wasted.
Yet the following year, in 2020, along came another situation I could never have predicted – a pandemic. The anniversary of my husband’s death fell in the middle of the first lockdown, passing in a haze of unseasonable heat. It was a strange, changed life, but we coped. My children and I have been through so much that I sometimes wonder if it made us better able to handle the changed circumstances of the pandemic. We had come through a major bereavement and survived. It’s amazing what you can get used to.
As the lockdown restrictions eased in the summer, I was eager to make the most of it. A friend persuaded me to put up an online dating profile, and the thought of going out and meeting new people was appealing after four months stuck in the house. I’d never done online dating, which was in its infancy the last time I was single. I had an idea that I would go out and have fun, meet new people and perhaps collect some dating horror stories to entertain my friends. I certainly wasn’t looking for a serious relationship or expecting to fall in love.
My plan seemed as though it would work well. I chatted to a few people and lined up a few dates. The very first was with Jon, a man I’d actually seen on the Guardian Soulmates dating site a couple of months before, looking only out of curiosity. I’d thought at the time that if I was in the market for a date, I would have contacted him. When he popped up again, this time on another site, I remembered him and swiped right to show that I was interested.
Jon was on furlough from his job as an operations manager and my work as a writer meant I could be flexible, so we were able to set a date one July lunchtime – a drink at a pub garden near both our homes which, amazingly, are just a mile apart in Tunbridge Wells. I messaged before we met to tell him I was a widow, partly to get it out of the way and partly to give him a chance to bail if he wanted to (I know widows who have had prospective dates run for the hills when they’ve found out!). But he didn’t.
I felt a churning mix of nerves and excitement as I walked towards the pub in the blazing sunshine. I needn’t have worried. Jon was already there when I arrived and he was tall and smiley and exactly like his photos. I felt instantly at ease. A quick drink turned into two and then another. He was funny and interesting, and he seemed to be interested in me.
There was no awkwardness. I felt as if I’d known him for years. We talked about everything, including past relationships. He was 49 and had had several long-term relationships but never married or had children. I told him about Michael and what happened, which is something that’s continued as our relationship has developed.
More dates followed, and our feelings grew. I could hardly believe I’d been lucky enough to find someone I had so much in common with, someone so open and gentle and kind who made me laugh again. It wasn’t an altogether comfortable feeling to be so happy and excited about this new relationship while still grieving the loss of my husband, but nonetheless, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was right for me.
It soon became clear that this was going to be more than a casual relationship, and after a few weeks I made the decision to tell my sons. After a few false starts where I opened my mouth and nothing happened, I managed to get the words out: “There’s something I want to tell you. I’m dating someone.” I’d worried over nothing. They bowled me over with their maturity and understanding. Charlie said casually, “That’s fine,” and Arthur actually uttered the words, “Oh, good for you!”
A month or so later, I introduced them to him at a small gathering of friends I was hosting for my birthday, thinking it would be easier for everyone if there were other people around. It meant that Jon had to meet not only my best mates, but also my children all in one evening, but he took it perfectly in his stride. The boys chatted to him easily, and it meant that the next time they saw him when it was just the four of us, the pressure was off as they’d already met.
The next hurdle was telling my in-laws – my late husband’s brothers and their families, whom I love dearly and would hate to hurt. I was scared of upsetting them, frightened they would think I’d forgotten Michael, that I wasn’t grieving any more or was replacing their much-loved brother – of course none of which was the case. I arranged a time to go and see them to tell them in person. My heart was in my mouth and I nearly bottled it, but eventually I managed to get the words out. Once again, I was lucky. I know it was difficult for them to hear and there were a few tears shed, but they were nothing but supportive.
My elder son said to me the other day: “It’s lucky we like Jon. Imagine if we didn’t!” But it’s not just luck. He and his brother could have chosen to make things difficult, to close themselves off to the possibility of me meeting someone else, but my incredible children met Jon with open hearts, ready and willing to like him, and he reciprocated, understanding how utterly central to my life they are.
Watching his growing relationship with them has been one of the greatest joys. It’s an odd feeling, but I think Michael would approve of Jon. I think, if he could, he’d be happy to see him cheering on our elder son at football, or helping our younger son use a drill. Jon will never replace Michael, and wouldn’t try to, but it can only be a good thing to have another person in the boys’ lives who cares about them.
They learned too young that life is hard and unpredictable, that things change and people can be taken from you. Despite all that (or perhaps because of it), my children are two of the most positive and resilient people I know. What I realise now is that love isn’t finite. We’re not given a store of it that once used is gone. Anyone who’s had more than one child can attest to that.
I will always love my sons’ father, and work to keep his memory alive, but I’ve been lucky enough to be offered another chance at love. Jon is a good man, open and funny and incredibly kind, with whom I can be entirely myself. I’ve never had a moment’s doubt about how he feels about me, or his commitment to me, because he tells me and shows me every day. I know Michael would have wanted that for me, as I would have for him if the situation were reversed.
As for my children, I think that seeing me fall in love again shows them that no matter how bad things are, there is always hope. There’s always the possibility of change, and we don’t only get one shot at happiness.
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