I’ve got to get this off my chest. Not to complain, but just to have someone listen and understand. None of my family knows, and my children and grandchildren believe that my husband and I have a strong, perfect marriage. I never had friends I could confide in about something like this—I’m too afraid of gossip and too tired to explain, to justify…
Oliver and I have been together for over thirty years. We met back in 1989. I was 22, and he was 25. We were young, full of dreams and hope. He seemed serious, reliable, the sort of man who could protect and support me, someone I could build my life with. We married rather quickly, even though our parents weren’t thrilled about it. But I insisted. I truly loved him.
The early years were tough. The challenging nineties, two kids, and never enough money. But we endured. By the early 2000s, things seemed to stabilize—we both had jobs, stability, our own home. We weren’t living in luxury, but we managed well enough, and the kids were always well-dressed.
Now, we have three grown children: two daughters who have their own families and have given us grandchildren. Our youngest son isn’t married yet, but he lives on his own. And there we were, Oliver and I, alone in our apartment, supposedly enjoying peace, quiet, a second youth. But a few months ago, everything fell apart.
I started to notice Oliver changing. He became irritable and withdrawn. He’d sit silently at dinner, spend long hours at work, show no interest in me or our grandchildren. I even wondered if he had another woman. Or perhaps he was dealing with financial problems, debts—men aren’t always forthcoming about such issues. But what I discovered was far more devastating than any affair.
Oliver filed for divorce.
When I asked why, he looked at me coldly and said, “I never loved you. I married you out of spite. The woman I loved married someone wealthy back then, and in my anger, I proposed to you. Once you both left the country, I came to terms with it. But she died recently. And I realized that I’ve been living someone else’s life.”
I was in disbelief. He spoke calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. No regret, no compassion. I just sat there listening, with one thought echoing in my mind: “Was it all a lie? All these years—just a pretence?”
He admitted that he had continued to see her even after our wedding. Then they drifted apart, and she moved to Europe with her husband. We had children, and he thought “it would be best” because “I was a good mother and a reliable wife.” Now that she’s gone, he wants to “start living for himself” and insists we sell the house to buy separate places.
How do you respond to something like that?
I always thought we were just a bit different. That he wasn’t affectionate—well, that’s how some men are. That he never said “I love you”—men aren’t exactly known for romance. I justified all of this. And now I realize—it wasn’t personality. It was indifference. I was there like furniture, a habit. We shared a life, but not a heart.
I’m 56 years old. And I feel as if I’ve been betrayed at my most vulnerable time. When you’ve given everything: youth, health, years… And in return, a cold “I never loved you.”
What hurts most is not what I’ve lost for myself, but the life I could have had if I’d known the truth earlier. If I hadn’t lived with someone who was indifferent to everything. If I hadn’t borne his children, waited up for him at night, cooked his favorite meals. And he just tolerated it all. Lived beside me because it was convenient. He had his own reasons—”revenge,” “resignation,” “comfort.” But are those justifications?
I don’t know how to go on. It turns out I was living an illusion. That nothing was real. That love isn’t a guarantee. That you can be a good wife, faithful, reliable, loving, and still end up unwanted.
Ladies, women who have been through something like this—how did you cope? How do you let go? How do you start to breathe again? I’m no longer young. I desperately 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 it seems I have no choice.
