Thirty years together, yet no love: how to cope with betrayal upon realizing it was all a lie
I need to let this out, not to complain, but just for someone to listen and understand. My family knows nothing about this, and my children and grandchildren believe that my husband and I have a solid, perfect relationship. I’ve never had friends I could confide in about something like this—I’m wary of gossip, judgement, and honestly, I’m too exhausted to explain or justify myself anymore…
John and I have been together for over thirty years. We first met back in 1989. I was 22, and he was 25. Young, hopeful, and full of dreams. He seemed serious, reliable, the kind of person who could protect and support me, someone with whom I could plan a future. We married fairly quickly, despite my parents’ objections. But I insisted. I believed I loved him.
The early days were tough. The turbulent nineties, two kids, financial struggles. Yet we got through it. By the early 2000s, life seemed to settle—jobs, stability, our own home. We weren’t living in luxury, but we had what we needed, and the children were well taken care of.
Now we have three adult children: two daughters, both married, have given us grandchildren. Our younger son isn’t married yet but lives independently. And here we are, John and I, in our flat, supposedly enjoying peace, quiet, and a second youth. But everything fell apart a few months ago.
I noticed a change in John. He became irritable, withdrawn. He was silent at dinner, spending long hours at work, showing no interest in me or the grandchildren. I even suspected he might have someone else. Or maybe financial issues, debts, loans—men don’t always admit to their problems. But what I discovered was far worse than any affair.
John filed for divorce.
When I asked him why, he looked at me coldly and said, “I never loved you. I married you out of spite. The woman I loved married a wealthy man, and I couldn’t handle it. So I proposed to you. Then she moved abroad, and I settled. But she recently passed away, and I realized I’ve been living a life that isn’t mine.”
I couldn’t believe it. He spoke so calmly, as though discussing the weather. No regret, no compassion. I just sat there listening, with one thought pulsing in my mind: “So it was all a lie? All these years—just a façade?”
He admitted he saw her even after we married. Then they drifted apart, she went to Europe with her husband. We had children, and he decided, “it would be better this way,” because “I’m a good mother and a reliable wife.” And now, with her gone, he wants to “start living for himself” and demands we sell the flat and buy separate places.
How do you even react to something like that?
All my life, I thought we were just a bit different. That he wasn’t affectionate—well, it happens. That he didn’t say “I love you”—men aren’t often inclined to such displays. I justified it all. Now I understand—it wasn’t his nature. It was indifference. I was just there, like furniture, a habit. We shared a life, but not our souls.
I’m 56 years old. And I feel as though I’ve been betrayed at my most vulnerable moment. When you’ve exhausted yourself, given everything: youth, health, years… Only to hear, in return, an indifferent “I never loved you.”
What hurts the most is not for myself. It’s for the woman I might have been had I known the truth earlier. Had I not lived with someone to whom I was irrelevant. Had I not borne his children, waited for him at night, cooked his favorite meals. While he just endured it. Lived alongside me because it was easier that way. He had his reasons—“revenge,” “acceptance,” “convenience.” But is that really an excuse?
I don’t know how to move forward. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve been living an illusion. That nothing was real. That love isn’t a certainty. That you can be a good wife, faithful, reliable, loving, and still end up unwanted.
Ladies, women, those who’ve been through something similar—tell me, how did you cope? How did you let go? How did you start to breathe again? I’m not young anymore. I just want a bit of peace. A bit of respect. A bit of warmth—not from him, no. From the world. From myself.
I’m tired of being strong. But I suppose I’ll have to keep trying.
