I felt jealous of you to begin with: echoes of your happy life spent in your large, wisteria-clad Victorian house, family heirlooms, your art room, an air of slight shabbiness – the way you wanted it. Perhaps I should have been more alarmed when I saw the post-wake decorations still festooned around the dining room, your smiling photograph on an easel, mementoes all around, photos of your family life.
It felt odd sleeping in your bed, your things on the bedside table, your clothes still hanging up. I thought your poor grieving husband needed help.
On the dating site he had ticked a lot of boxes: attractive older man with an interest in jazz and world music, similar tastes in cinema and politics. After an initial flurry of emails we spoke on the phone. I sensed a lack of connection, but he insisted we met.
On the first date we went walking by the river. He stopped to eat his sandwiches and rather rudely took a telephone call from another potential woman.
He told me your stories while we walked. How you had suffered from depression and then recovered, only to die very suddenly. I’ve always been a good listener.
Something seemed to propel us forward: his need for intimacy after 34 years of marriage, my compulsive caring genes? We fell in love.
Over the months I kept meeting problems. He couldn’t make any decisions. I thought he needed help.
So it was me who sorted and bagged up all your clothes, the contents of your bedside cabinet, your cosmetics, books, art things. You seemed very talented – I really liked some of your ceramics but your more recent paintings of repeated dark horizontal lines were disturbing.
We eventually bought a house together, just down the road so your grown-up children wouldn’t be too upset and lose their connection to you. It was a nightmare trying to get him to pack, especially as I had my own house and contents to sort out.
It became such a struggle deciding about unwanted furniture. Your daughters seemed to suffer from the same crippling inability to make decisions and I would get so frustrated.
His Asperger’s gradually became more and more apparent. Yes, lots of people think that all men are somewhere “on the spectrum”. I know that your best friend had talked about Asperger syndrome to you. I had professional knowledge and had identified his sticking to routines, obsessive interests, flashes of anger that occasionally appeared from nowhere, his aversion to bright lights, problems with socialising, lack of empathy, selfishness.
He had redeeming features, however, and I was proud of him when he started seeing a specialist. He wasted his money, though, going through the motions to please me. I’m so sorry you suffered from such severe depression. After your daughters left home it must have become intolerably lonely. You took to your bed, shunning friends. I know he would not have been able to help much. He probably did his best. And then you died so suddenly.
Our endless cycles of upsets and arguments continued. We even tried moving again, nearer to my friends.
I have decided to end the relationship now. I think of you quite a lot. Maybe you could have done with a friend like me?
IFL
