At the age of 55, I flew to Greece to meet the man I had fallen in love with over the Internet. But when I knocked on his door, someone else was already there, bearing my name and living my story.
All my life, I’ve been building a fortress. Brick by brick.
No towers. No knights. Just a microwave that beeped like a heart monitor, kids’ lunchboxes that always smelled like apples, dried up markers, and sleepless nights.
I raised my daughter alone.
Her father disappeared when she was three.
‘Like an autumn wind tearing down a calendar,’ I once told my best friend Rosemary, ’one page disappeared, without warning.
I didn’t have time to cry.
I had rent to pay, clothes to wash, and fever to fight. Sometimes I fell asleep in jeans, with spaghetti on my shirt. But I was making it work. No nanny, no child support, no pity.
And then…my girl grew up.
She married a cute freckled guy who called me ma’am and carried her bags like they were glass. Moved to another state. Started living her life. She still called every Sunday.
‘Hi, Mum! Guess what? I made lasagne and it didn’t burn!’.
I smiled every time.
‘I’m proud of you, baby.’
One morning after the honeymoon, I sat in the kitchen holding my chipped mug and looked around. It was so quiet. No one was shouting: ‘Where’s my maths book!’. No ponytails bouncing down the corridor. No spilled juice to clean up.
Just 55-year-old me. And silence.
The loneliness doesn’t pound in my chest. It comes through the window, soft as twilight.
You stop cooking real meals. You stop buying dresses. You sit with a blanket and watch romcoms and think:
‘I don’t need a great passion. I just need someone to sit next to me. Breathing next to me. That would be enough.’
And then Rosemary burst back into my life like a glitter bomb into a church.
‘Then sign up on a dating site!’ – she said one afternoon, bursting into my living room in heels too high for logic.
‘Rose, I’m fifty-five. I’d rather be baking bread.’
She rolled her eyes and sank down on my couch.
‘You’ve been baking bread for ten years! That’s enough of that. It’s time you finally baked a man.’
I laughed. ‘You make it sound like I could sprinkle cinnamon on it and stick it in the oven.’
‘Honestly, at our age, that would be easier than going on dates,’ she muttered, pulling out her laptop. ‘Come here. We’ll do it.’
‘Let me just find a picture where I don’t look like a saint or a headmistress,’ I said, scrolling through my camera in my mind.
‘Oh! This one,’ she said, holding out a picture from my niece’s wedding. ‘The soft smile. Shoulders open. Elegant, yet mysterious. Perfect.’
She clicked and scrolled through the photos like a professional date girl.
‘Too many teeth. Too many fish. Why do they always keep fish?’ muttered Rosemary.
Then she froze.
‘Wait. Here. Look.’
And here it is:
‘Andreas58, Greece.’
I leaned closer. A quiet smile. A tiny stone house with blue shutters in the background. A garden. Olive trees.
‘It looks like it smells like olives and calm mornings,’ I said.
‘Oooh,’ Rosemary grinned. ‘And he texted you FIRST!’
‘Really?’
She clicked her mouse. His messages were short. No emoji. No exclamation points. But warm. Grounded. Real. He told me about his garden, about the sea, about baking fresh rosemary bread and collecting salt from the rocks.
And on the third day… he wrote:
‘I’d love to invite you to visit, Martha. Here in Paros.’
I just stared at the screen. My heart was pounding like it hadn’t in years.
Am I still alive if I’m afraid of romance again? Could I really leave my little fortress? For a man of olive?
I needed rosemary. So I called her.
‘Dinner tonight. Bring pizza. And whatever your fearless energy consists of.’
‘It’s karma!’ shouted Rosemary. ‘I spend six months digging through dating sites like an archaeologist with a shovel, and you – bam – and you’ve already got a ticket to Greece!’
‘It’s not a ticket. It’s just a message.’
‘From a Greek man. Who owns olive trees. It’s basically a Nicholas Sparks novel in sandals.’
‘Rosemary, I can’t just run away like this. This isn’t a trip to IKEA. This is a man. In a foreign country. He could be a Pinterest bot for all I know.’
Rosemary rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s approach this wisely. Ask him for pictures of his garden, the view from his house, I don’t care. If he’s fake, it’ll show.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
‘Then pack your swimming costume and fly.’
I laughed, but texted him. He replied within the hour. The pictures came like a light breeze.
The first showed a crooked stone path overgrown with lavender. The second showed a small donkey with sleepy eyes. The third was a whitewashed house with blue shutters and a faded green chair.
And then… the last picture. A plane ticket. My name on it. Departing in four days.
I stared at the screen like it was a magic trick. Blinked twice. Still there.
‘Is this really happening? Is this really…real?’
‘Let me see it! Oh my God, of course it’s real, silly! Pack your bags,’ Rosemary exclaimed.
‘No. No. I’m not going. At my age? Fly into the arms of a stranger? That’s how people get into documentaries!’
Rosemary didn’t say anything at first. Just kept munching on her pizza.
Then she sighed. ‘Okay. I get it. It’s a lot.’
I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself.
That night, after she left, I was lying on the couch under my favourite duvet when my phone buzzed.
A text from Rosemary, ‘Can you believe it! I got an invitation too! Flying to see my Jean in Bordeaux. Yay!’
‘Jean?’ I frowned. ‘She didn’t even mention Jean.’
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Then I got up, went to my desk and opened the dating site. I had an irresistible urge to write to him, to thank him, and to accept his offer. But the screen was blank.
His profile was gone. Our messages were gone. Everything was gone.
He must have deleted his account. Probably thought I’d ghosted him. But I still had the address. He’d sent it in an earlier message. I’d scribbled it on the back of a grocery receipt.
What’s more, I had a photograph. And a plane ticket.
If not now, when? If not me, then who?
I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and whispered into the night,
‘To hell with it. I’m going to Greece.’
As I stepped off the ferry at Paros, the sun hit me like a soft warm slap.
The air smelled different. Not like it did back home. It was saltier there. More wild. I dragged my small suitcase behind me – it rattled like a stubborn child refusing to be dragged towards adventure.
Past the sleepy cats stretched out on the windowsills as if they’d ruled the island for centuries. Past the grandmothers in black shawls who swept the doorsteps of their homes.
I kept my eyes on the blue dot on the screen of my phone. My heart was pounding like it hadn’t in years.
What if he’s not there? What if this is all a strange dream and I’m standing in front of a stranger’s house in Greece?
I stopped at the gate. Deep breath. Shoulders pulled back. My fingers hover over the bell. Zing. The door creaked open.
Wait… What?! No way! Rosemary!
Barefoot. Dressed in a flowing white dress. Her lipstick was fresh. Her hair was curled into soft waves. She looked as if a yoghurt advert had come to life.
‘Rosemary? Aren’t you supposed to be in France?’
She tilted her head like a curious cat.
‘Hello,’ she purred. ‘Have you arrived? Oh, darling, this is so unlike you! You said you weren’t going to fly. So I decided to…take a chance.’
‘You’re pretending to be me?’
‘Technically, I created your account. Taught you everything. You were my… project. I was just at the final presentation.’
‘But… how? Andreas’s account is gone. And the messages, too.’
‘Oh, I saved your address, deleted your messages, and removed Andreas from your friends. Just in case you changed your mind. I didn’t know you knew how to save pictures or a ticket.’
I wanted to scream. To cry. To slam my suitcase shut and scream. But I didn’t. At that moment, another shadow moved towards the door.
Andreas…
‘Hello, ladies.’ He shifted his gaze from me to her.
Rosemary immediately pressed herself against him, grabbing his hand.
‘This is my friend Rosemary. She just happened to be here. We told you about her, remember?’
‘I came because of your invitation. But…’
He looked at me. His eyes were as dark as the waves of the sea.
‘Well… it’s strange. Martha had already arrived earlier, but…’
‘I’m Martha!’ I whispered.
Rosemary chirped sweetly.
‘Oh, Andreas, my friend was just a little worried about me leaving. She’s always babysat me. So she probably flew here to see if everything was okay and if you were a fraud.’
Andreas was clearly fascinated by Rosemary. He laughed at her antics.
‘All right… Stay. You can work things out. We have plenty of room here.’
Whatever magic that was supposed to be here had been stolen….
My friend was playing against me. But I had a chance to stay and make things right. Andreas deserved the truth, even if it wasn’t as sparkling as Rosemary’s.
‘I’ll stay,’ I smiled, accepting the rules of Rosemary’s game.
Dinner was delicious, the view was beautiful, and the mood was as dragging as Rosemary’s silk blouse after a croissant.
Advertisement
She smiled and giggled, filling the air with her voice like a perfume with nowhere to go.
‘Andreas, do you have grandchildren?’ – purred Rosemary. purred Rosemary. purred Rosemary.
Finally! Here it is. My chance.
I slowly set my fork aside, raised my head, and with the calmest expression I was capable of, asked: ‘Didn’t he tell you he had a grandson named Richard?’
Rosemary’s face trembled, just for a second. Then she brightened.
‘Oh, that’s right! Your…Richard!’
I smiled politely.
‘Oh, Andreas,’ I added, looking directly at him, ’but you don’t have a grandson. This is a granddaughter. Rosie. She wears pink ties and likes to draw cats on the walls. And her favourite donkey – what’s his name? Oh, that’s right. Professor.’
There was silence at the table. Andreas turned to look at Rosemary. She froze, then giggled nervously.
‘Andreas,’ she said quietly, trying to sound playful, ’I think Rosemary is making a strange joke. You know my memory…’
Her hand reached for her glass, and I noticed she was trembling.
Mistake one. But I wasn’t done yet.
‘And Andreas, don’t you share a hobby with Marta? It’s so cute that you both enjoy the same things.’
Rosemary frowned for a moment…then lit up. ‘Oh yes, antique shops! Andreas, that’s wonderful. What did you find there? Surely there must be many little treasures on this island!’
Andreas set aside his fork.
‘There are no antique shops here. And I’m not into antiques.’
Mistake number two. Rosemary is now hooked. I continued.
‘Of course you are, Andreas. You restore old furniture. You told me the last thing you did was the beautiful table that still sits in your garage. Remember you were supposed to sell it to the woman from the next street over?’
Andreas frowned, then turned to Rosemary.
‘You’re not Martha. How did I not notice that right away? Show me your passport, please.’
She tried to guffaw. ‘Come on, don’t be so dramatic…’
But passports are not to be trifled with. A minute later it was all on the table, like a cheque in a restaurant. No surprises. Just the unpleasant truth.
‘I’m sorry,’ Andreas said quietly, turning to Rosemary. ‘But I didn’t invite you.’
Rosemary’s smile cracked. She stood up quickly.
‘The real Martha is boring! She’s quiet, always thinks things through and never improvises! You’ll feel like you’re in a museum with her!’
‘That’s exactly why I fell in love with her. For her attention to detail. For the pauses. For taking her time: because she’s not chasing the thrill, she’s searching for the truth.’
‘Oh, I was just seizing the moment to build happiness!’ cried Rosemary. ‘Martha was too slow and less keen than I was.’
‘You cared more about the itinerary than the person,’ replied Andreas. ‘You asked about house size, internet speed, beaches. Martha…she knows what colour ribbons Rosie wears.’
Rosemary hummed and grabbed her bag.
‘Well, suit yourself! But you’ll run away from her in three days. You’ll get tired of the silence. And the buns every day.’
She raced around the house like a hurricane, shoving clothes into her suitcase with the fury of a tornado at her heels. Then, a slam. The door shook in its frame.
Andreas and I were just sitting on the terrace. In the distance, the sea whispered. The night enveloped us like a soft shawl.
We drank herbal tea without saying a word.
‘Stay a week,’ he said after a while.
I looked at him. ‘What if I never want to leave?’
‘Then we’ll buy another toothbrush.’
And next week…
We laughed. We baked scones. We picked olives with sticky fingers. We walked along the beach without saying a word.
I didn’t feel like a guest. I didn’t feel like I was passing through. I felt alive. And I felt…at home.
Andreas asked me to stay a little longer. And I… was in no hurry to come back.
Tell us what you think about this story and share it with your friends. Maybe it will inspire them and brighten their day.
