I married to escape poverty, though now I realise I inhabit an exquisite cage. I am thirty-five. When I was twenty, I wasn’t destitute, but every penny counted. I was a student, attending university classes in the evenings and working during the day in a bakery. Each evening, I’d return home exhausted, my feet swollen, fretting over whether I’d have enough money that month for the bus fare, photocopies, food, and university fees. I yearned not for luxury, but simply for a steady, peaceful existence.
That was when I met him. He was forty, a university lecturer, always impeccably dressed with a car of his own. He spoke of travel, investments, and security. I didn’t immediately fall in love. I liked him, yesbut more than his face or his speech, I was drawn to what he represented: respite, calm, a life free from constant struggle.
We began seeing each other, and from the very start, the difference between us was clear. While I scanned the prices in restaurants, he ordered without a glance at the cost. While I agonised about finding more work, he spoke of buying another flat as an investment. He would say things like, “You don’t have to live so tightly,” “I could give you a better life,” and “I don’t want you to struggle alone.” His words were etched in my memory.
I knew finishing my degree would improve my prospects, but it would take years. With him, the leap was instant. After six months, he proposed. I didn’t cry from happiness. I was silent. That night, sleep eluded me. I thought of my mother, my weary mornings, the prospect of never again counting pennies, a lovely house.
My mother objected at first. She said I was too young, he was too much older, and she didn’t see love in me. I answered her, telling her love doesn’t pay the bills and that I was tired of hardship and wanted something better. We cried. In the end, she accepted, not wishing to lose me.
We married a year and a half after we met. Everything happened swiftlya grand house, new furniture, holidays in those first months. I posted pictures smiling, yet inwardly felt like an actress performing a part chosen not for love, but for ease.
I can’t say he’s a bad man. He provides for us, is responsible, a fine father to our children, supports both his mother and mine financially, is present in our lives, faithful, gentle. He isn’t the issue. I am. I do not love him as one loves truly. I respect him, admire him, am grateful for all he has done, but I lack that love which stirs the soul.
His pace in life is steady. He retires early, dislikes going out, prefers calm evenings, resists changes. I still long to travel, to laugh loudly, improvise, feel butterflies. Yet I adapt. I always adapt.
There are nights when I lie in a huge bed, the air warm, the silence comfortable, and feel an odd emptiness. It’s not sorrow, but the sense that I am living the correct lifebut not the life that brings me happiness. I cook in a beautiful kitchen, take my children to excellent schools, lack nothing materially, and yet often miss excitement, longing, dreams. When he says, “I love you,” I reply, “Me too,” but the voice inside is different.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I remained alone, finished my studies without shortcuts, waited for another kind of love. Sometimes I feel guilty even for these thoughts, for there are women who would give anything for this stability. That’s where the guilt begins: I have no right to complain, but nor can I deceive myself.
What advice could you offer, so that I might find happiness?
