Last Tuesday, I almost filed for divorce.
I sat in my car, staring down at the papers, absolutely certain: the spark was gone. There was nothing leftjust a hollow emptiness inside.
Instead of going home, I drove to my parents house. I suppose I was looking for a bit of refuge, or at least an excuse to delay the inevitable for a few hours.
My mum and dad have been married for 54 years. Theyre a classic English couple out of a black-and-white photographhes a retired mechanical engineer, a quiet man, not one for big speeches; shes a former nurse, gentle but strong, running the home with a calm efficiency.
While my father was pottering around in the shed next to the old Ford, I sat at the kitchen table with my mum. I felt burnt out from the inside, and finally I asked her quietly, watching her fold clean tea towels,
Mumtell me honestly after all these years, do you still love Dad? Or have you just got used to each other?
She paused folding, looked at me with an expression I couldnt quite readhalf-pity, half a secretive smile. She didnt answer right away. She just squeezed my hand, gave a tired but knowing smile, and turned back to her towels.
After about an hour, I left, feeling frustrated. It seemed like she just didnt understand this whole need for an emotional connection and passion we talk about nowadays.
But as I pulled up outside my own house, my phone buzzed. There was a long message from Mum on WhatsAppa surprise, since shes never been keen on technology, and Id never seen her send that much text in one go.
I read her message in the car, and by the end of it, I was crying softly.
My darling Emily,
Today you asked me if I still love your father. I didnt answer straight away because love isnt something you can sum up in a few minutes while folding towels. But I do want you to know the truth.
Your question made me smilenot because it was silly, but because the answer is complicated.
Do I love him the way I did in 1972? No. If youre asking if I still get butterflies, or that giddy flutter from a first date, or fireworks like in the filmsno, I dont.
But thats not love. Thats adrenaline.
Being in love after a lifetime together isnt a whirlwind. Its roots.
Its not a feeling that sweeps you off your feet anymore. Its the firm presence that holds you steady when life tries to knock you down.
My heart doesnt pound wildly for him now; instead, it slows. My hands dont tremble for him; in truth, loving him gives me the strength to get out of bed on mornings when my joints ache with arthritis.
There are no grand surprises in our house anymore. No dramatic gestures or over-the-top romance. But we have something better: our rituals.
Its the kettle whistling at exactly 6:00, because he knows Ill want a cup of tea to start the day. Its our harmless bickering about the right way to stack the plates, or who left the hall light on again.
Its the way he instinctively drapes an extra blanket over me when I cough in the night.
Maybe your generation finds this sort of thing dull and ordinary. But in truth, it means everything.
At this time in my life, I dont need a man wholl buy me diamonds or whisk me off to Paris. I want someone who hears me say my back hurts and rubs it without fuss. Someone who quietly passes the tissue box when I cry at the news, and doesnt ask why.
Someone who wont leave the room when Im in one of those moods and cant even stand myself.
And your father does all of that. No fuss. No expectation for thanks. Hes just always there.
Loving someone for fifty years isnt like in the novels. Its more like learning a secret language only two people in the world can speak. Its being able to catch each others eye from across a crowded room and know exactly what the other is thinking.
Because youve shared the bills, the worries about your children, the pain of losing friends, and the stubbornness to keep going.
So, to answer you: yes, I am still madly in love with him.
But not with the young lad I met in a café in 72. I love the life weve built together. I love the peace that comes from knowingno matter how mad the world gets, no matter what storms rage outsidehe is my home.
Dont look for fireworks, sweetheart. Look for the one who will be your shelter.
I turned off the engine. Tore up the papers on the passenger seat. I walked into our flat to find my husband on the sofa, looking as tired as I felt.
Fancy a cuppa? he asked.
Yes, I replied. I really do.
Everything begins with butterflies. But it only endures because of the roots.
