I am now forty-one years old, and I’ve been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. It was only a couple of months ago that a thought began to quietly trouble meone Id never dared to voice before. I dont think I ever truly fell in love with him in the way people describe the heady magic of love. I remember it was an ordinary evening; I was sitting in the lounge watching television when I wondered why I’d never felt what other women call butterfliesthat sweet nervousness, the urge to run into someones arms. The more I pondered, the clearer everything became.
I grew up in a difficult home. My father drank heavily, returned home drunk, spent his wages on alcohol, and brought nothing but strife. My mother worked as a cleaner to fill the gaps left by him. My upbringing was marked by arguments, exhaustion, and tension. As a teenager, the only thing I truly wished for was to escape that house, to have my own space, to sleep without fear, and to stop waking to shouted quarrels. I didnt dream of romanceI dreamed of freedom.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two, and he was ten years my senior. Just a month after we began seeing each other, he spoke of living together, of helping me, and wanting something sincere with me. I never paused to ask myself if it was love. I saw it as my opportunity to leave home and start anew. I accepted swiftly, gathered my belongings, and left. There was no lengthy soul-searching, no lingering doubtonly an urgent desire to escape.
I cant say Ive had a hard life. He has always been a good husbanddiligent and dependable. We never lacked for food; the rent was paid, then we bought a house. He adores our children and takes care of everything. Ive never suspected infidelity, nor have there been rows. From the outside, our marriage must appear perfect. Thats what confuses me most, because theres no grand reason for the strange emptiness I sometimes feel.
I do love him. I respect him deeply and am grateful for everything hes given mepeace, stability. Yet when I look back, I realise I never felt that passionate, fiery love others describe. I never experienced wild jealousy or the thrill of waiting for him to return. My love has always been more habit, partnership, gratitudebut not spark.
Im not thinking about leaving. Im not searching for someone else. I wouldnt dream of breaking up our family. Im simply reflecting on something Ive never dared admitthat perhaps what I called love all these years was really necessity, security, and a longing to escape hardship. And now, at forty-one, with grown children and a settled home, this is what I realise.
Sometimes I feel guilty for even thinking it. I scold myself: How dare you doubt whats given you such stability? But at the same time, I sense that honesty is fair. Perhaps my way of loving is simply different. Perhaps I first learned to survive, before I learned to fall in love. I really dont know. I only know that this thought has stirred so much inside me, memories from that little girl who only ever wanted to flee her home.
What would you do in my place?
I am seeking your advice.
