Im forty-one years old, and Ive been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. Two months ago, a thought struck meone Id never dared to voice until now: I dont think Ive ever truly fallen in love with him in the way people talk about love. It was a typical evening; I sat alone in the living room, television humming in the background. Suddenly I wondered why Id never felt what other women call butterflies, that tender restlessness, the urge to run and embrace someone because you miss them so desperately. The longer I pondered, the clearer everything became.
I grew up in a difficult home. My father drank heavily, came home drunk, spent his wages on pints, and stirred up trouble. Mum scrubbed houses for extra cash, patching up what Dad couldnt provide. My childhood was marked by shouting matches, exhaustion, and tension. As a teenager my only dream was to leaveto carve out my own space, to sleep peacefully without being jolted awake by screams. It wasnt love I longed forit was escape.
When I met my husband at twenty-two, he was ten years my senior. Within a month of seeing each other, he was already talking about moving in together, promising to help, saying he wanted something real with me. I didnt stop to wonder if I loved him. I saw a way outa chance to flee my childhood home and start anew. I accepted quickly. Packed my things and left. There wasnt any soul-searching, no deep doubts, just a fierce urge to get away.
I cant say Ive had an unhappy life. Hes been a good husband: hard-working and reliable. We never lacked food; rent was always paid, and later, we bought a house. He adores our children, takes care of everything. Theres never been any sign of infidelity or loud rows. On the outside, our marriage seems perfect. Thats what confuses me mosttheres no obvious reason for this strange emptiness.
I do care for him. I respect him. Im grateful for so much. He gives me peace and stability. Yet, when I look back, I realise Ive never felt that wild, passionate love other women describe. Never felt fierce jealousy, never trembled at the thought of losing him, never waited with excitement for him to come home. My love for him has been more habit, partnership, gratitudebut never fire.
I dont think about divorce. Im not searching for someone else. I dont want to break my family apart. Im simply facing something I never dared before: maybe what I called love for so many years was really just need, security, and the desperate desire to escape from hardship. And now, at forty-one, with grown children and a settled house, I finally see it.
Sometimes I feel guilty for even thinking this. I tell myself, How dare you question the very thing that gave you stability? But at the same time, I feel its honest to admit it. Maybe the way I love is just different. Maybe I learned how to survive before I ever learned how to love. Im not sure. All I know is this realisation stirred up so much within methings Ive carried since I was that little girl who only wanted to run away from home.
What would you do in my place?
Im asking for your advice.
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