Dear Bel,

Four years ago I lost my husband, David. We had good times and difficult ones but always came through them together. When he died, I believed the romantic part of my life had ended.

I kept busy – volunteered at the local hospice shop, spent more time in the garden and helped look after my grandchildren.

Then, unexpectedly, I met Peter. We got talking after a National Trust walk last autumn and ended up sitting over coffee for nearly three hours. He’s a widower too and there’s an understanding that’s difficult to explain unless you’ve experienced that sort of loss yourself; neither of us has to pretend we’re ‘over it’.

What’s surprised me most is how alive I feel again. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed having someone to ring just because something funny had happened – or to just share Sunday lunch with.

We’ve taken a few trips along the coast, discovered little cafes and, yes, we’ve become affectionate. Growing older doesn’t mean you stop wanting companionship. Unfortunately, my children don’t seem to see it that way.

My daughter insists she’s pleased I’ve found company, but whenever Peter’s name comes up she becomes noticeably quiet. My son has been much more honest. He admitted he finds it uncomfortable to think of me being in another relationship because it feels, to him, as though I’m replacing their father.

The real upset came a few weeks ago when I was looking after my grandson. Peter popped round and ended up making huge ice cream sundaes for tea. Later my grandson innocently told his mum that ‘Grandad Peter’ had made them and what fun it was.

You are entitled to create a new life for yourself which takes you outside the limits set – even if unconsciously – by your children, writes Bel Mooney

We certainly hadn’t encouraged that name but my daughter rang me in tears. She said it was all too quick and the children would become confused.

Since then, I’ve found myself editing my own happiness. If Peter and I go somewhere local, I wonder who might see us. I hesitate before mentioning him. Last weekend I almost cancelled dinner with him because my son said he might call in. It suddenly struck me that I was behaving like a guilty teenager instead of a woman of a certain age.

I still love David. That will never change. My children lost their father and I understand that grief never entirely leaves you. But they didn’t lose the person they expected to grow old beside. I know I need to be brave and stand up to my children but I’m not sure how.

Margaret

Bel replies: Viewed rationally, it’s odd that a mother can feel that she wants – or needs – to ‘stand up to’ her children.

I wonder at what stage in life the shift occurs. When does the see-saw of dependency tip the other way? When do we allow our children to shift into the parental role and tell us what to do?

I can remember a moment when I was in my 50s and my daughter told me sternly that the lacy top I was wearing was too revealing. Instead of telling her I could wear what I like, I meekly went and changed. Was it to keep the peace? Or something deeper about both of us getting older?

Many people will read your letter and feel indignant on your behalf. Your husband died four years ago and you had learned to accept the new reality – then suddenly you met a man who made you feel very happy.

Shouldn’t your adult son and daughter have felt unalloyed delight in your newfound happiness? Of course they should. But how often do people respond and act as they ‘should’?

Your son is honest to admit to feeling jealous on behalf of his dead father. Adult sons can also feel a sort of revulsion at the thought of their mother becoming physical with somebody new – a taboo Freud has something to say about. But I’m afraid it has to be countered.

You are entitled to create a new life for yourself which takes you outside the limits set – even if unconsciously – by your children.

And if a part of his jealousy is, in truth, because you will no longer be so ‘available’ for grandchild care whenever needed, that’s all the more reason to assert your independence.

It’s interesting that for your daughter the tipping point concerned your role as a grandmother. Her innocent child suddenly seeing your new friend as a grandfather figure cut right through your daughter’s deepest feelings to reawaken her grief for her father – and it was too much to bear. I can understand that.

Telling you that ‘the children would become confused’ was just transferring her own feelings of confusion.

Of course, she ought to have felt happy that Peter gave her little son a wonderful, fun time. But there we go again: people do not act as they ‘ought’. You won’t find it easy but you must control the guilt and be sure to tell each of them, face to face, exactly what you have said in that last paragraph of your letter.

You have to speak to them calmly and firmly. Never let Peter feel second-best. This is your time – and both of you deserve it.

Decades after her rape, she’s still hiding

Dear Bel,

I have a friend who I have known since childhood. We had good times together as teenagers and have always felt very close and confided in each other.

But just recently, she told me something I didn’t know – that when she was nearly 15 she was raped by somebody living nearby, a man in his late teens.

You have to understand that we all went in and out of each other’s houses, knew each other’s parents and so on. A close community. So, naturally, I knew the person and her revelation shocked me more than I can say.

She and I just had a weekend away together and this subject came up again. For her, it will never go away, and cases in the news – as well as references to historic crimes committed by people such as Jimmy Savile – bring it all back to her.

We’re both in our late 50s now but her memory is as vivid as ever and it clearly troubles her.

Her problem is whether to tell her husband of nearly 40 years about the rape, but she wonders how he would feel.

It’s easy for some people to say: ‘It’s a long time ago, get over it’ – which I would never do.

It’s far from easy for those who have suffered this violation to forget.

I asked if she had thought about therapy. She said yes, but she would then have to tell her husband why she was having counselling – she couldn’t keep it a secret.

I don’t know what to say to her. Or what I would feel if it had happened to me. It still preys on her mind all these years later. But what would her husband feel if she told him now – that’s the big worry for her.

Vicky

Bel replies: It goes without saying that your friend endured a horrible experience at a time when perhaps such things were not taken as seriously as they are now.

She buried the experience and didn’t even confide in you, her close friend. I wonder what you would have done?

The danger is that the young man would have denied his crime point-blank or said it was consensual.

It is a very old situation, indeed, as countless women know to their cost.

Like you, I think it would certainly benefit her to have some counselling – in order to make sense of what happened, disinter any feelings of guilt she might have felt at the time (not uncommon) and work out why she has always kept what happened a secret.

Isn’t that the real issue here?

It’s one thing for a young teenage girl to feel ashamed because of being raped, because of complicated feelings of responsibility and guilt. But it’s quite another thing for a woman in her late 50s to feel unable to tell her husband about something so horrible and potentially traumatic that happened long ago.

You tell me, within your longer letter, that you yourself would have no problem in keeping the counselling ‘a secret’ from your husband if it had happened to you.

But why should it be a secret? Doesn’t this raise important questions about marriage itself? What is it about your friend’s husband’s attitude that makes her so afraid to tell him?

Of course, he might feel hurt that it has taken her so long to trust him with her painful secret. But surely a man who loves his wife would want to know everything that happened to her that made her the woman she is?

If she is afraid that somehow he might think less of her because she was violated by a neighbour’s son, then I would suggest that as well as therapy to talk about the past, she and her husband might benefit from couples counselling about the present.

It’s very easy to understand why a girl might be reticent about sharing such a painful thing with a new boyfriend, and of course married couples are allowed to keep secrets from each other (although not too many, I hope).

But within a long marriage? I don’t think so.

If I were you, I would advise her to both confide in her husband and seek therapy – so the awful memory doesn’t continue to haunt her in the next stage of her life.

And finally... Why you should never say ‘never’

Do you ever tell yourself you’ll never do something or other again? For example, I told my husband: ‘I’ll never fly long-haul again,' and know it’s probably true.

On the other hand, what if there was a very good reason to do so – like a funeral, for instance? Or the chance of a superb, unexpected trip?

I’m always telling other people, ‘Never say never’ – but need to remind myself. Because you never know what’s going to happen.

I was thrilled last week when one of my avowed ‘nevers’ turned into a ‘Wow, I did it!’

You see, I was 54 when I discovered the joy of the open road, riding pillion on a great big Harley-Davidson. I tried to learn to ride and lost my nerve, but was contented to be a cool, uncomplaining pillion – for thousands of miles criss-crossing the United States, writing travel articles.

But, inevitably, you get older. Aches and pains increase. The last time I swung my right leg over our beautiful Fat Boy was during the Covid lockdown in 2020 when we collected some medicines for my aged parents and delivered them to them in style.

I’d already had my left hip replaced so I wasn’t too comfortable. Then the right one became worse and worse, until it was replaced in 2024. By then the motorcycle love had gone. I gave away one of my leathers and decided that was that. ‘Let’s sell the beast,’ I sighed.

But last Thursday it growled and roared once more – a glorious sound.

We went to a bikers’ meet at the ancient Somerset cider pub Tucker’s Grave, a 30-minute ride from our house. Gleaming machines, old and new. Bikers of all ages and types. Tattoos. Leathers. The smell of burgers and chips; the froth of beer and cider. Sheer elation to be back in the saddle.

Remember – never say ‘never’.

Bel answers readers' questions on emotional and relationship problems each week.

Write to Bel Mooney, Daily Mail, 9 Derry Street, London, W8 5HY, or email bel.mooney@dailymail.co.uk. Names are changed to protect identities. Bel reads all letters but regrets she cannot enter into personal correspondence.