The Cost of Just "Making Do"

My name is Wang Xiuying, and I am sixty-three years old. My husband passed away five years ago, leaving me alone in this empty house. My son settled down in Shenzhen and only makes it back a few times a year. When he calls, he always says, "Mom, I’m worried about you being alone. Why don't you move to Shenzhen and live with us?" But I know better; with my daughter-in-law’s temperament, my presence would only cause friction.

Last year, I was introduced to Old Li. He is five years older than me and was a middle school teacher before he retired. He carries himself like a refined gentleman. His wife had also passed away several years ago. After a few months of getting to know each other, we felt we got along well enough, so we discussed moving in together. We didn't register for marriage; it was a "cohabitation partnership" (dahuoguor)—just two people living together to look after one another.

The first two months were actually quite nice. Old Li would cook, I would tidy up the house, and we’d watch TV together or go for walks downstairs. Life felt stable. But as time went on, things began to sour. I want to speak my mind today—not to complain, but to tell women my age what it is we truly fear when it comes to cohabitation in our later years.

The first fear is becoming a free housekeeper.

It might sound harsh, but that is the reality. In the beginning, Old Li rushed to help with the chores. Gradually, everything became my responsibility. I’d get up to make breakfast while he sat and waited. After eating, I washed the dishes while he read the paper. Lunch, dinner—all three meals became my job. He was good at giving sweet talk: "Xiuying, your cooking is so much better than mine." But what use is sweet talk? I’m in my sixties, too. My back isn't what it used to be, and my knees ache if I stand for too long.

Once, I had a fever and felt completely drained. As I lay in bed, unable to move, Old Li stood by the bedside and asked, "What's for lunch?" My heart sank. I told him I wasn't feeling well and suggested he fix something for himself. He went to the kitchen and made a bowl of noodles; when he was finished, he left the dirty bowl in the sink without even offering me a bite. In the end, I had to drag myself up to boil some ginger tea.

That night, I tossed and turned. I wondered: What am I doing this for? When I was in my own home, I ate when I wanted and slept when I wanted. No one ordered me around. Now, I’m serving someone else—cooking, laundry, cleaning—and it’s all taken for granted. Was I looking for a partner, or was I looking for an unpaid job?

The second fear is losing one's personal space.

When people get old, they have their own habits and temperaments. I love peace and quiet; I like reading and cross-stitching. Old Li loves noise. He keeps the TV on from morning till night at a piercing volume. When I asked him to turn it down, he said his hearing was failing. When I suggested headphones, he said they were uncomfortable. So, I just had to endure it.

He also had a habit of micromanaging. If I went out, I’d tell him, but then came the interrogation: Who are you going with? How long will you be? When will you be back? When my son mailed me a new coat, he glanced at it and said, "That color isn't suitable for someone your age." If I spent a little too long on the phone with a girlfriend, he’d pace around me, signaling that it was time to hang up.

I know he was afraid of loneliness and wanted my company, but sometimes this "companionship" felt suffocating. I am not his appendage; I am a living human being. I need my own friends, my own hobbies, and my own little corner of the world. At this age, if you lose even that bit of freedom, what is the point of living?

The third fear is being taken advantage of financially.

Some might find this petty, but life is made of "firewood, rice, oil, and salt"—daily expenses are unavoidable. We originally agreed to split living costs fifty-fifty. Old Li’s pension is about a thousand yuan higher than mine, and though he offered to pay more, I insisted on half so neither would owe the other anything.

But once we lived together, it wasn't that simple. He has a large extended family, and relatives would drop by constantly. Every time they came, I had to organize the meals, and the costs came out of our shared grocery fund. Once, his son’s family of three came for dinner. I spent the whole morning making eight dishes. After they left, I told Old Li that the groceries cost over two hundred yuan and should be accounted for. He agreed, but the next day he deducted three hundred yuan from the fund, claiming the extra was for the "electricity bill."

I felt uncomfortable but stayed silent. Later, I realized the math would never truly balance. I contributed the labor and the money, yet it felt like he thought I was the one benefiting from his generosity. A close friend once warned me: "Xiuying, think carefully. By living with him, your pension is spent on his household while your own house sits empty. If things don't work out, what will you have left?"

That hit home. For women of our generation, the little money and property we have were saved penny by penny during our youth. It’s our "coffin money"—our security for old age. If I exhaust it all on a domestic partnership, what happens to me later?

The fourth fear—and my greatest—is giving your heart only to find the other person is just "settling."

Old Li said something I’ll never forget. After an argument, I told him, "If there’s something about me you don't like, tell me, and we can work on it." He sighed and said, "At our age, what’s there to change? Let’s just make do (chouhuo)."

The phrase "make do" pierced me like a thorn. I don't want to just "make do." I’m over sixty; how many years do I have left? Ten? Twenty? I don’t want my remaining days to be someone else’s compromise. I want to be cherished, protected, and held dear.

I admit, Old Li isn't a bad man. He never hit or scolded me, and he paid his share of the bills. But he never asked if I was happy. He never noticed a new hairstyle. He never saw me exhausted and said, "You rest, I’ll take care of this."

We lay in the same bed, but it felt like a galaxy lay between us. He would turn over, and I would sigh. Sometimes I’d wake up at midnight, stare at the ceiling, and think: Is this really the retirement I wanted?

A few days ago, Old Li’s daughter came to visit. As we sat at the dinner table, she said right in front of me, "Dad, we’re so relieved you’re with Auntie Wang. At least there’s someone to cook, do the laundry, and look after you." She smiled at me and added, "Thank you for your hard work, Auntie Wang."

I smiled back, but my heart was bleeding. They were relieved, but what about me? Who makes sure I am looked after? I take care of their father, but who takes care of me?

I’m not saying his children are bad people; they were always polite and brought gifts of fruit or milk. But it was the politeness shown to a stranger, not the intimacy shown to family. In their eyes, I wasn't part of the family; I was their father’s "companion"—a caregiver for his daily life.

That night, I stood on the balcony for a long time. I saw a young couple walking below, holding hands and laughing. I suddenly burst into tears. I wanted someone to hold my hand, too—not just to help me cross the street, but simply because they wanted to hold it. I wanted someone to buy me a small cake and light a candle for my birthday, rather than saying, "Why bother at our age?"

Women of my generation lived for our children when we were young and for our families in middle age. We finally made it to retirement, only for our husbands to pass away. We seek a partner not for wealth, but for someone to notice if we are cold or warm, someone to talk to, and someone to hand us a cup of warm water when we are sick.

But the reality? After a few months of living together, I felt less and less like myself. I was someone’s "partner," someone’s cook, the children’s "Auntie Wang"—everything but myself.

Yesterday, I told Old Li I wanted to move back to my own place. He was stunned and asked why. I said, "Old Li, you’re a good man, but I don't want to just 'make do'." He was silent for a long time before saying, "Think it over carefully."

I have thought it over very carefully.

I’ve come to realize that when elderly people live together, what a woman fears most isn't hard work or exhaustion. It’s the fear of giving everything only to become a tool in someone else’s life. It’s the fear that your feelings don't matter and that no one truly cares for you. It’s the fear that, in the end, you’ll forget that you were once someone worth cherishing.

I’ve given all I should give in this life; I’ve sacrificed all I should sacrifice. For the days I have left, I want to live for myself. Even if I am alone, it is better than being next to someone and feeling lonelier than ever.

I’ve been back in my own home for two days now. I’ve tidied up, watered the flowers on the windowsill, and started my cross-stitch again. I cook when I want to; if I don't, I just have a bowl of noodles. Lying in my own bed at night, without the blare of the TV, my heart finally feels at peace.

I know there are many women like me. It’s not that we don't want a companion; we just don't want to trade the rest of our lives for a "compromise." If one day I meet someone who truly knows how to care for another soul, my heart might stir again. But if not, that’s fine. Living alone is quite alright, too.

At least, I am still myself.