'I thought my much older husband would take care of me. Then I worked out his ulterior motive.'

I grew up in a small beach town, where life was salty hair, sand on the bed sheets, and weekends spent barefoot.

I trained as a dancer, which gave me the kind of long limbs and posture people noticed before they noticed anything else. But I wanted to be seen for more than that. I was funny, creative, and a little quirky.

From the time I was old enough to date, I never had trouble attracting the so-called top-tier guys. The football captain, the surf pros, the good-looking ones everyone else swooned over.

When I moved to the city to start my career, that attention didn't stop. The football captains of my teenage years had been replaced by finance guys, up-and-coming entrepreneurs, and high-flying executives.

My friends envied me. "You always get the best ones," they'd sigh. But behind the glossy exteriors, it was the same story.

They chased hard at the start, showering me with attention, and once they "had" me, it fizzled. The compliments slowed, the calls stopped, and more often than not I'd discover there was someone else.

It left me hollow. I wanted what my parents had — the partnership, the best-friend kind of love where my dad adored my mum so completely it was written in the way he looked at her. None of the men I dated were capable of that.

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In my mid-twenties, I read an article about the appeal of silver foxes. Older men these days were looking after themselves, not surrendering to soft bodies and long lunches.

But to me, an idea was sewn that was more than that. Older men, I thought, had already been through their wild, selfish years. They were ready to settle down, to commit.

So I started looking for them.

While my girlfriends were chatting to the hot young guys at bars, I deliberately turned my attention to the older ones. The ones in tailored suits with a touch of silver at the temples.

I'd spark conversations, hoping for that elusive maturity. What I discovered instead was that most were married, and far too happy to pursue me on the side. It left me with a sour taste.

That wasn't what I wanted. I wasn't after someone's husband. I was after something real.

And then, it happened where I least expected it … at work. He was a client of the agency. I'd known him in the polite, professional way you know someone you've emailed and seen across meeting tables, but that was it.

Until one night, after a particularly successful campaign, the whole team went out for celebratory drinks. He came along.

We ended up tucked into a corner together, talking for hours. For the first time in my life, I felt like a man truly saw me. He asked about my ideas, my ambitions, my dreams.

He wasn't just interested in how I looked, he was interested in who I was. And he was interesting too. He'd lived, he had stories, he had depth. I was hooked. For the first time in my life, I became obsessed with someone.

I longed for him when we were apart. I couldn't get enough of his voice, his mind, his attention. I wanted to know everything about him.

He made me feel like my dad made my mum feel — cherished, adored, like I was the most important person in the room. The age gap didn't bother me. In fact, it made sense. He was older, wiser, and ready for the kind of life I wanted too.

My friends didn't see it that way.

"Ew, he's seventeen years older than you," they'd whisper.

My brothers ribbed me with relentless Viagra jokes. My parents were concerned too, quietly asking what that age gap might mean for my future. But I was certain.

I wasn't just in love, I truly believed that dating older was the key to happiness. I was sure I'd finally found the kind of stability I'd been chasing.

For the first couple of years, it was bliss. We moved in together, then got married. My friends even started to come around, saying, "He's so solid." And I believed them. I thought I had finally found the life I'd been waiting for.

But then the cracks appeared. It started small. A bill he forgot to pay. A loan he asked me to cover, promising it was temporary.

Then came the "business ideas". Start-ups, investments, projects that were always about to take off, always just needed one more injection of cash.

At first, I told myself it was fine. That he just needed a little help. But it never changed. Instead, I became the one carrying everything. The mortgage. The credit cards. The groceries. Even the dinners out when he insisted we "deserved to celebrate."

Meanwhile, he spent freely. Gadgets, memberships, long lunches with "investors." And whenever I tried to talk about it, he brushed me off. "You're better with money than me," he'd say, like that was supposed to flatter me.

I went into that marriage thinking I'd found maturity. What I'd really found was a man who was perfectly happy for me to shoulder it all.

I loved him, I really did. At one point I'd been consumed by him. But love doesn't pay the mortgage. And love doesn't refill your bank account after someone else has drained it.

Eventually, I reached breaking point. I couldn't keep sacrificing my future to fund his lifestyle.

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Leaving was terrifying. The divorce was brutal. He fought me for things he hadn't even paid for, and in the end, he still managed to screw me in the settlement. But I walked away with something worth far more. My freedom.

Now I rent a little place by the beach. It's not much, but it's mine. I don't have the financial cushion I thought I'd have at this age, but I have peace of mind. I have stability in a way I never did in my marriage.

And if there's a next time, I won't be distracted by temples of silver or the promise of maturity. I'll be looking for someone who shows up. Someone who carries their share.

Someone who loves me for the funny, quirky, creative woman I am. I thought marrying an older man would give me security. Instead, it taught me that stability doesn't come from someone else. It comes from me.

Feature Image: Getty. (Stock image for illustrative purposes only).