When Love Grows Old: My Journey Through Divorce at Sixty

The rain hammered against my kitchen window, the kind of relentless downpour that drowns out even your own thoughts. I stood there, clutching my mug of black coffee, staring at the phone as if it might ring again. It was Susan’s voice, still echoing in my ears from just minutes ago: “I did it, Linda. I left him. I’m sitting in my car outside Target and I have no idea what to do next.”

I pressed the phone to my chest, heart pounding. Susan and I had been best friends since college, since the days when we’d sneak out of our dorms to smoke cigarettes on the quad and dream about the men we’d marry. Now, at sixty, she was starting over, and I was terrified for her—and for myself. Because if Susan could leave after thirty years, what did that say about the rest of us?

I called her back. “Where are you now?”

She sniffled. “Still in the parking lot. I can’t go back, Linda. I can’t.”

“Come here,” I said. “I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

She arrived twenty minutes later, hair plastered to her face, mascara streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a woman who’d been through a war. I wrapped her in a towel and sat her at my kitchen table. The city outside was a blur of headlights and sirens, the kind of noise that never really stops in Chicago. But inside, it was just us, two old friends, and the silence between us was heavy.

“I thought I’d feel free,” she whispered. “But I just feel…empty.”

I reached for her hand. “You did the brave thing, Susan.”

She shook her head. “Brave? Or stupid? Thirty years, Linda. Thirty years of building a life, and now I’m sitting here with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heart.”

I wanted to tell her it would get better, but I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. My own marriage to Tom had been on autopilot for years. We moved around each other like ghosts, polite but distant, our conversations reduced to grocery lists and reminders about doctor’s appointments. Watching Susan unravel made me wonder if I was next.

The next morning, Susan’s daughter, Emily, called me. “Is my mom with you?” she demanded, her voice tight with anger.

“She’s here,” I said gently. “She just needs some time.”

Emily sighed. “Dad’s a mess. He keeps asking what he did wrong. I don’t know what to tell him.”

I hesitated. “Sometimes it’s not about what someone did. Sometimes it’s about what they didn’t do.”

Emily was silent for a long moment. “Can you just…take care of her?”

“I will.”

Susan stayed with me for a week. She wandered my apartment in her pajamas, staring out the window at the city below. She jumped at every text from her husband, Mark, but never answered. She cried at night, muffling her sobs with a pillow. I tried to distract her with old movies and takeout, but nothing seemed to reach her.

One night, after a bottle of cheap wine, she finally spoke. “Do you ever feel like you wasted your life, Linda?”

I stared at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

She laughed bitterly. “I spent thirty years making sure everyone else was happy. Mark, the kids, even my parents. And now I don’t even know who I am without them.”

I thought about Tom, about the way he barely looked at me anymore. About the nights I lay awake, wondering if this was all there was. “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Sometimes I do.”

The next day, Susan’s son, Brian, showed up at my door. He was angry, pacing my living room, voice raised. “You’re just going to throw it all away? For what? Some fantasy of happiness?”

Susan’s hands shook as she faced him. “I can’t do it anymore, Brian. I can’t pretend I’m happy when I’m not.”

He glared at her. “Dad’s not perfect, but he loves you. Isn’t that enough?”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “It’s not about love, Brian. It’s about living. I want to feel alive again.”

He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pictures rattled on the wall. Susan collapsed onto the couch, sobbing. I sat beside her, unsure what to say. How do you comfort someone when you’re not sure you wouldn’t make the same choice?

The days blurred together. Susan found a small apartment on the north side, a cramped studio with peeling paint and a view of the alley. She moved in with nothing but a suitcase and a box of old photos. I helped her unpack, hanging her clothes in the tiny closet, arranging her books on the sagging shelves.

One afternoon, as we sat on her battered couch, she turned to me. “Do you think I made a mistake?”

I looked around at the bare walls, the empty space. “I think you did what you had to do.”

She smiled weakly. “I’m scared, Linda. What if I’m alone forever?”

I squeezed her hand. “You’re not alone. You have me. And you have yourself. That’s more than a lot of people.”

But at night, when I went home to Tom and our silent house, I wondered if I was lying to her—or to myself. Tom sat in his recliner, watching the news, barely glancing up as I came in. I wanted to tell him about Susan, about how brave she was, but the words stuck in my throat.

One evening, I finally tried. “Tom, do you ever think about what we’d do if we weren’t together?”

He looked at me, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean…are you happy?”

He shrugged. “We’re fine, aren’t we? We’ve got the house, the kids, the grandkids. What more do you want?”

I stared at him, searching his face for something—anything. “I want to feel alive, Tom. I want to feel like we matter to each other.”

He sighed, turning back to the TV. “You worry too much, Linda.”

I lay awake that night, listening to the city outside, the distant wail of sirens, the hum of traffic. I thought about Susan, alone in her apartment, and wondered if she was sleeping any better than I was.

Weeks passed. Susan started taking long walks by the lake, rediscovering parts of the city she hadn’t seen in years. She joined a book club, started painting again. She called me every night, her voice a little stronger each time. “I’m still scared,” she admitted. “But I’m starting to remember who I was before Mark.”

Her kids came around, slowly. Emily brought her groceries, Brian fixed her leaky faucet. Mark called sometimes, his voice soft and sad. “I miss you, Sue,” he said once. “I wish I’d listened more.”

She cried after those calls, but she didn’t go back.

One Saturday, Susan invited me over for dinner. Her apartment was still small, but it felt warmer now—paintings on the walls, flowers on the table. We drank wine and laughed about old times, about the men we’d loved and lost, about the dreams we still had.

As I left that night, she hugged me tight. “Thank you, Linda. For everything.”

Driving home, I thought about my own life. About the choices I’d made, the ones I was too afraid to make. I wondered if I had the courage Susan did, to start over when everyone else thought it was too late.

Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, wondering if I’m living or just surviving. I think about Susan, about the way she found herself again, even in the ruins of her old life. And I ask myself: Is it ever really too late to begin again? Or are we just too scared to try?

What would you do, if you realized your life wasn’t what you wanted anymore? Would you have the courage to start over, no matter your age?