When Margaret left five years ago, she took more than half the house and most of my confidence. Suddenly I was this greying man in a half-empty terrace, wondering how intimacy had become something other people seemed to enjoy.
I've tried dating apps. God, what a miserable experience. Thirty-second swipes, ghosting, twenty-something women looking for men who look like George Clooney but act like their therapist. At 54, I'm neither.
The escorts I see aren't just about sex. That's the misconception people have. Last week, Sara from Cork spent two hours with me. We talked about Yeats, had wine, touched hands. She listened to me ramble about my engineering career, my grown children who rarely call. Her kindness felt more genuine than most interactions I've had since the divorce.
I know what some might think. But loneliness is a quiet violence. And sometimes compassion comes wrapped in unexpected packages.
The world isn't kind to middle-aged men who admit to feeling lost. So here I am, finding small mercies where I can.