“You’ve gotten old, and I’m still a young man,” my husband said to me over dinner. And at that moment, I realized I couldn’t live like this any longer. 😢

Artur and I have been together for over thirty-five years. When you’ve been with someone for that long, you stop expecting fireworks. Marriage becomes habitual, like old furniture. I always thought that at that age, respect and peace of mind are the most important things.

I’m fifty-five. I take care of myself. Not because I’m afraid of aging, but because I feel comfortable doing so. I exercise in the mornings, use creams, and apply makeup carefully, not too much. I go to the hairdresser once a month, cover my gray hair, and get a manicure. I work as an economist, my house is clean, and I cook well.

My husband is fifty-eight. He’s an ordinary man of his age. He doesn’t drink, works, and brings home money. But something’s happened to him lately. He started hanging out in front of the mirror more often, sucking in his stomach, buying some youthful T-shirts, and seeming to search for the guy he hadn’t been for a long time.

That evening, I set the table. I roasted some meat, made his favorite salad, and got out some mushrooms. We ate and discussed our friends.

And then he remembered a friend of ours who had married a girl half his age. I said it seemed strange and even pathetic. And Arthur suddenly flushed and started talking about nature, the freshness of a man’s nature, and how a man only gets better and younger with age.

Then he looked at me carefully, not unkindly, and said:

“Have you noticed how much you’ve aged?”

I asked again, because at first I didn’t believe he was saying it out loud.

And he, without stopping, began listing:

“You have wrinkles around your eyes. Your neck isn’t what it used to be. Your waist has become flabby.” You used to be more relaxed, more lively. And now you’re somehow… domesticated. A woman. You do everything right, but without the fire.

Then he added, as if summing it up:

“And I’m still a strong man. A man only gets better with age. I have experience, charisma. Young people, by the way, look up to me.”

It was as if something clicked inside me. I realized I owed a 58-year-old man simple things. 😢☹️

I silently got up from the table and said:

“Get up.”

He looked surprised, but followed me into the hallway. I led him to a large mirror with a bright light and stood him next to me.

“Since we’re on the subject, let’s be honest,” I said. “Look closely.” I looked at him in the reflection and began to speak calmly, without shouting.

“See your belly? That’s not respectability or status. It’s beer in the evenings and the eternal ‘I’ll start working out later.’ You suck it in for five seconds, and then it always pops back out.”

He wanted to say something, but I continued.

“You’re talking about my wrinkles. Yes, I have them. Now look at the bags under your eyes. You could store potatoes in them. Is that from ‘charisma’ or from eating salty food at night?”

I pointed at his face.

“Your skin is gray, you look tired. Your knees hurt, your back aches, you put your own pills on the nightstand. And I don’t take your blood pressure for fun.”

He stood silently, looking in the mirror.

“And tell me honestly,” I added. “Who needs you like that?” A woman who will listen to your aching lower back and remind you to take your medication? Do you really think young men look at you with desire, and not with the thought: I hope my father doesn’t turn out like that?

He blushed and looked down.

“And if anyone does look,” I said more quietly, “it’s either out of calculation or by mistake. But calculation is weak. We’re not millionaires. So come down to earth, eagle.”

He was silent for a long time, then quietly said he was joking. That he blurted out something without thinking. That I was the most beautiful thing he had.

I didn’t respond.

Because after words like that, it’s no longer about compliments. It’s about whether the person you’ve spent your whole life with respects you.