They lived together for 41 years, yet they decided to divorce. I asked why.

We often believe that if two people have shared an entire life, they become inseparable. We imagine that they have so much in common, so many memories together, that nothing and no one could separate them. But life isn’t always like that, and my family is a sad proof of this.

My grandparents were married for 41 years. Four entire decades, side by side. During that time, they raised three children, saw them build their own families, and became grandparents of four grandchildren. We were their pride and joy. The whole family was convinced that we were a model of stability, unity, and true love.

Until one day, during a family dinner at my grandmother’s apartment, where everyone was gathered—children, grandchildren, and relatives—celebrating their wedding anniversary, my grandmother stood up and calmly, without emotion, announced:

“We’ve decided to divorce.”

At first, we thought it was a bad joke. Some smiled awkwardly; others nodded, thinking it was ironic. But my grandfather confirmed it: yes, they had already filed the papers. The room fell into a strange and heavy silence, as if the air itself had become denser.

As the oldest grandchild, I was always very close to my grandparents. From them, I learned what it meant to respect, to share joys and sorrows, and to support each other during tough times. They were my living example. Those words struck like lightning on a sunny day.

I couldn’t understand: what could happen between two people to suddenly decide, after 41 years, to separate? Was something like that even possible?

I spent days thinking about this issue. Hundreds of questions hammered in my mind. Everything seemed like a terrible misunderstanding. Finally, I gathered the courage, sat down with them in the kitchen, and clearly asked:

“Why?”

Their answer left me frozen.

“We’re very different,” my grandmother said. “And we realized it too late. We stayed together because we had to raise the children, maintain the household, support each other. But that phase is over now. Now, it’s just the two of us. And we’ve realized that… it simply doesn’t work.”

“She drives me crazy with everything,” my grandfather suddenly confessed. “Even the way she breathes, the way she looks at me… I’m tired of feeling guilty just for existing.”

“And he drives me crazy with his laziness, his forgetfulness, leaving everything half-done,” my grandmother added. “I can’t stand how he shuffles his feet down the hallway, how he chews, how he forgets to turn off the lights.”

Their words were harsh, but there was no anger. Just weariness and, curiously, sincerity.

They told me they’d tried everything: couples therapy, temporary separation—each lived for a while with one of their children to see if they would miss each other—they even tried rekindling their romance with special dinners and memories of their youth. Nothing worked. They were simply exhausted by each other.

“We don’t want to pretend anymore,” my grandfather murmured. “We’ve lived honestly until now, and we want to end things the same way. Apart.”

Initially, the family tried to dissuade them. A divorce at their age? What would the neighbors say? What would their children think? But slowly, everyone understood: we all have the right to seek happiness, even after 60, even after four decades of marriage.

The divorce happened peacefully, without arguments or property disputes. My grandmother stayed in the apartment, and my grandfather moved to my uncle’s house near the city, with all the comforts. They still talk on the phone, occasionally come to family gatherings, but each lives their own way, as they wish.

I often think about this, how fragile something we believe is eternal can be. How, decades later, we might realize we’re not with the right person. And how important it is not to betray ourselves out of habit, fear, or social convenience.

I still love my grandparents. And perhaps now, I respect them even more. For their honesty. For having the courage to be themselves until the very end.