TRIGGERS, BAGGAGE, AND OTHER FUN THINGS I BROUGHT TO MY LATE-LIFE RELATIONSHIP

Charlie and I had our first date in early March and moved in together that August. I was 48, and had full custody of my three boys who were 16, 14, and 11. Charlie was 45, and his son was 9. At the time, I was struggling to pay rent and had received multiple eviction notices, which, as a mother, was absolutely terrifying. My divorce had left me in financial and emotional ruin, but I forged ahead as best as I could. Shortly after our first date, Charlie made it clear he was 100% all in on our relationship. If you missed my dating advice article from a few months ago, his commitment wasn’t what you might think. I told him we needed to have 17 dates before I would consider being intimate with him.

Charlie had a quiet confidence that I admired, and a clear mind-body connection. Somehow, he knew we had what it took to be a strong couple and felt as though I was his soulmate. Before meeting him, I had read a book about late-life love that discussed the lack of game-playing one might experience during our younger dating years. The book also noted that things tended to move faster with older couples. Older people knew more about themselves and what they wanted in a partnership, and they were less inclined to waste time, so I wasn’t alarmed by how fast things were moving. As an assignment from another relationship book I’d read, I created a list of what I was looking for in a partner, including my non-negotiable dealbreakers, and Charlie fit the bill. Still, I was riddled with doubt about him, about us as a couple, and about myself. And, like most people going into a new relationship, I was terrified of being hurt. Despite the work I had done before meeting him, I was deeply wounded by my nineteen-year marriage and carried a lot of trauma baggage from my childhood. I wondered if I could love someone again and struggled to believe I was lovable. But the rational side of my brain said, “This guy is nice; he’s a good person, he really likes me, and he owns a house.”

His house was a four-bedroom, three-bath with a panoramic ocean view. He had updated the three bathrooms, but the kitchen needed serious remodeling. When Charlie asked me to move in, I told him I couldn’t picture living there with the dated kitchen. “Well,” he said, “I can remodel my house or buy you an engagement ring; which would you prefer?” I chose the remodel, hands down. Since my lease wouldn’t be up until August, Charlie and his son moved into my rental, and we had five months to gut the entire downstairs and make it like new inside.

Looking back now, I think, wow, I had some nerve asking him to remodel his house for me. I’ve never thought of myself as high maintenance, but this move definitely made it seem like I was. We started talking about our possessions, which was daunting because we had two sets of everything, from dishes to sofas to silverware. The discussions quickly turned into arguments over what was staying and what was going. There was one other huge issue. I had a small dog who was a literal family member, and he had two big dogs that would have eaten her alive. There was no way I could get rid of my dog after all my kids had been through, and there was no way his dogs could cohabitate with mine. I asked him to find a home for his dogs because they weren’t well trained, terrified me, and I feared something bad would happen. He was heartbroken but agreed that we couldn’t have all three dogs, and mine was more enmeshed in my family than his. He found a family who wanted both dogs, and the problem was solved. This was another way he showed me how all-in he was, and I was in awe. I couldn’t understand how he knew so clearly and trusted that we’d make a great team. In my mind, we barely knew each other.

To ease the brewing tension over whose things we’d use, I hired a professional organizer and a decorator to decide for us. This was one of the best moves I made because empowering others to make those decisions kept us from fighting over our beloved possessions. I soon learned that Charlie is extremely sentimental, so the organizer put together memory boxes for us to store meaningful items that didn’t fit in the house. This was another barrier we had successfully worked through as a very new couple.

In August, when the remodel was nearly complete, Charlie took his son, me, and my kids to Maine for a vacation, where we met his entire family. During that week, the decorator reviewed everything we owned and staged the house to match the new modern, open floor plan. The vacation went smoothly, except for the time I wore a Yankees hat in front of his Red Sox family. On move-in day, when the giant truck loaded with my family’s belongings pulled up in front of his house, he seemed tense, and as someone highly sensitive to other people’s energy, I was on edge too. Until that moment, we hadn’t discussed which boys would go into which bedrooms, but I assumed we would follow the usual pecking order in a family of four. That meant my two oldest would get their own bedrooms, and my youngest and Charlie’s son would share a bedroom. That wasn’t what Charlie had pictured, so we stood there while the movers started unloading the truck and had a heated debate. Charlie was concerned that his son, being an only child, would be overwhelmed by sharing a bedroom. His son occupied the smaller bedroom upstairs half the time, since Charlie shared custody with his ex-wife. I suggested we put my middle son in that room since it was smaller, and the two younger boys in the bigger room. We agreed my oldest, who would be starting his senior year in the fall, would be in the downstairs bedroom. Charlie also felt that his son shouldn’t sacrifice his room because my kids were moving in. I stood my ground and wouldn’t budge on how I pictured the room breakdown, and after some convincing, Charlie agreed. Thankfully, the two youngest got along super well, and when my oldest left for college a year later, no one moved into his room.

Once we were all settled in the house, my wounded child and large amounts of relationship baggage reared their ugly heads. Looking back on my behavior, I don’t know whether I was testing Charlie to see if he really loved me or whether I didn’t believe I was worthy of love. I would find the littlest thing Charlie innocently did or said, associate it with my ex, and go completely insane. Usually, when something triggered me, I would yell, kick him out of his bedroom, lock the door, and barrage him with text messages. Charlie would settle on the sofa in the family room, text, “I love you, Jenny,” put his phone on DND, and sleep like a baby. In the morning, I felt embarrassed and horrified by how insane I had acted and would apologize profusely for my behavior. But this happened over and over, and I honestly couldn’t stop myself. It was as though all the wrongs that men had done to me in my life were being blamed on Charlie. He wasn’t doing anything bad or saying anything that warranted my reaction, but when the switch flipped, it felt like an alien inhabited my body. One day, he did something that triggered the fear switch, and I began looking for an apartment to move into. Since I had full custody, there was no hiding from my kids when I was having a triggering response to something. When I told my youngest son that I thought it was best if we moved out, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “If you move out, I’m staying here with Charlie.” It felt like ice water had been splashed in my face. I was causing chaos in my children’s lives because of my fear and insecurities. They were finally feeling stable, and I was trying to tear that away from them. I told myself that I needed to get it together. This was the most stable, healthy, and loving relationship I had ever had with a man. Charlie had done everything I’d asked, including seeing my therapist before I moved in so he knew what he was getting into and could better understand my deep wounds. It was perplexing that he tolerated my outbursts and seemed to understand why I overreacted to triggers. It was as though nothing I did fazed him, or was it that he loved me unconditionally? My ex-husband once told me that unconditional love didn’t exist, and I believed him. I dragged that belief around with me and pulled the luggage right into my relationship. Then, I taught myself to breathe before overreacting, to listen to what Charlie was really saying, and to ask myself if I was feeling triggered, and why. I began to understand that calm and steady wasn’t a bad thing, that unconditional love was real, and that an argument wasn’t the end of our relationship.

While on a sunset walk recently, I asked Charlie what it was about me that helped him get through the rocky start. “I could tell you had a beautiful heart,” he said.