Why Should I Become My Granddad’s Carer? What Will You Give Me—An Apartment? A Car? — a 24‑year‑old’s response to Anatoly’s (43) marriage proposal.

Why should I become a nurse for an old codger? What will you give me a flat? a motor? she said, staring at me as if I were a discounted item forgotten on a supermarket shelf. In that instant, at fortythree, I wondered whether the world had finally tipped over, labeling me a grandpatype and slapping a price tag on a relationship without a hint of flirtation or game.

I am fortythree. Ive never been married; I have had two cohabitations, each lasting two years, ordinary and uneventful, ending amicably like two adults parting ways. I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons. Yet in todays marketplace that seems a suspicious anomaly, as if never having married marks you as defective, as though there were a hidden certification you failed.

I decided it was time. I wanted a family, a woman nearbybeautiful, wellkept, youthful. Id be honest: I preferred someone under twentyeight, someone who would make my friends ask, Where did you find her? I saw no shame in that; after all, I earn a steady income, own a flat in Croydon, drive a modest Ford, drink no spirits, smoke no cigarettes, keep fit, and, in my mind, I was a respectable prospect on the market.

But the market, I discovered, runs on different laws now, and I was not a buyer but a product and not even a popular one.

The first date was with a twentysixyearold named Poppy, met through a dating app. We chatted for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, being with you is easy. I thought it might be a normal connection, free of demands. The moment we met, however, the conversation slipped into another dimension.

She looked at me, appraising, and after fifteen minutes asked, What car do you drive? I answered. Do you own a flat? I answered. Whats your salary? And then the realization struck: this was not a date but an interview, and I was the asset being assessed for liquidity. She asked each question as calmly as one orders tea or coffee.

When I turned the table, asking, What are you looking for? she smiled and said, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No hint, no coyness just a price list.

The second date was with a twentyfouryearold called Daphne, the very pictureperfect girl I thought was worth the effort. We met in a restaurant in Manchester, I settled the bill, and conversation drifted to the future.

I want a family, children, a stable relationship, I said.

She stared and replied, And what can you give? I blinked. What do you mean? she continued, You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she choose you?

Then she said, Youre older, so you must compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point? I tried to argue that feelings, compatibility, respect mattered, but she simply shrugged. Those are secondary. The foundation comes first.

And then, calmly, she echoed the line that had haunted me: Why should I be a nurse for an old codger? She added, If you want a young woman, match the expectations.

I left feeling as if they had dismantled me, examined every component, and priced me on a market board.

The worst part wasnt a single incident but the whole system.

The third encounter broke me completely. Id been texting a twentysevenyearold named Elsie, whod initiated the chat, asked questions, flirted. I began to think maybe not everything was rotten. Then she sent a voice note: Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to work himself to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.

I asked, What do you offer in return?

She laughed. Me? Myself.

That sentence clicked inside me like a cold snap. Myself turned into a product, a service, an allinclusive package that required payment upfront. The absurdity lay in how earnestly they presented it, no shame, no pretense they set the terms, and if you didnt fit, you were written off like unsuitable stock.

Ironically, I had blamed women that they were spoiled, greedy, only after money. Yet the more dates I attended, the more I realised the flaw wasnt theirs alone.

I entered this market expecting to choose, yet I found myself being chosen. I wanted youth, beauty, convenience. They wanted stability, income, advantage. I chased eyecandy; they chased resources. In that logic everything is honest, just unpleasant.

It hit me that I wasnt unique or special, just another item compared, rated, discarded. The pain wasnt in rejection; it was in the moment when you realize youre seen not as a man, but as an offer with conditions, limits, a production date. Perhaps Im simply too late.

Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before everything became a transaction. Perhaps I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side. Now reality sits plain, and to get what you want you must either conform or change your demands. Im not ready for either, and that, perhaps, is the most unsettling revelation of recent years.