I’ve got to let this out. It’s not to complain, but I just need someone to listen and understand. My family knows nothing; our children and grandchildren think my husband and I have a solid marriage, a perfect union. I’ve never had friends I could trust with this either—too afraid of gossip, and I’m too exhausted to explain or justify myself anymore.
David and I have been together for more than 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 right kind of person who could protect and support me—a partner for life. We got married rather quickly, despite my parents’ hesitation. But I insisted because I loved him.
The early days were tough. The turbulent nineties, two kids, not enough money. But we pulled through. By the early 2000s, life seemed to settle—steady work, stability, our own home. We weren’t living in luxury, but we had what we needed, and our children were well taken care of.
Now we have three grown children: two daughters who are married with children of their own, giving us grandchildren. Our youngest son isn’t married yet but lives on his own. It’s just my husband and me in our flat now—supposedly enjoying peace, quiet, a sort of second youth. But everything shattered a few months ago.
I noticed David had changed. He became irritable, withdrawn. Silent at dinner, spending long hours at work, showing no interest in me or the grandchildren. I even suspected he might have found someone else. Or perhaps he was hiding financial troubles or debts, as men sometimes find it hard to admit problems. What I discovered, however, was far worse than any affair.
David filed for divorce.
When I asked why, he looked at me and coldly said, “I never loved you. I married out of spite. The woman I loved then married someone wealthy, and in my frustration, I proposed to you. And when you both moved abroad, I resigned myself to it. But she’s passed away recently. And I realized I’ve lived someone else’s life this whole time.”
I couldn’t believe it. He spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather. Without a hint of regret or compassion. I just sat there, listening, with only one thought echoing in my mind: “So it was all a lie? All these years—just an act?”
He admitted he saw her even after our wedding. Then they drifted apart when she moved to Europe with her husband. When we had children, he thought it was “for the best” because I was “a good mother and reliable wife.” And now that she’s gone, he wants “to start living for himself” and insists we sell our home and buy separate ones.
How does one respond to that?
All my life, I thought we were just different. That he wasn’t affectionate—that happens sometimes. That he didn’t say “I love you”—men aren’t always into displays of affection. I justified it all to myself. But now I see—it wasn’t just a part of his nature. It was indifference. I was there like furniture, a habit. We shared a life, but not our souls.
I’m 56 years old. And I feel as if I’ve been betrayed at my most vulnerable point. After expending everything: youth, health, years… Only to be met with the indifferent “I never loved you.”
What hurts the most isn’t for myself. It’s for the woman I could have been if I had known the truth sooner. If I hadn’t spent my life with someone who didn’t care. If I hadn’t carried his children, waited up at night, cooked his favourite meals. He simply endured. Lived alongside me because it was easier. He had his reasons—”revenge,” “resignation,” “convenience.” But can that really justify anything?
I don’t know how to move forward. It turns out I lived in an illusion. That nothing was real. That love is no guarantee. That you can be a good, loyal, loving wife, yet still end up unwanted.
Ladies, women who have gone through something similar—tell me, how did you get through it? How do you let go? How do you breathe again? I’m not young anymore. I just want some peace. A little respect. Some warmth—not from him, no. From the world. From myself.
I’m tired of being strong. But it seems I must carry on.
