I married to escape poverty, and now I live in a beautiful cage. I am 35 years old. When I was 20, I wasnt desperately poor, but I counted every penny. I was a student attending university classes in the evenings, working in a bakery during the day. Id come home exhausted, my feet swollen, wondering if Id have enough money that month for bus fare, photocopies, food, and university fees. I dreamed of a calmer life not a luxurious one, just something solid and secure.
Thats when I met him. He was 40, a university lecturer, always well-dressed, with his own car, talking about holidays, investments, and security. I didnt fall in love right away. I liked him, yes, but what I liked most wasnt his face or how he spoke it was what he stood for: rest, peace, a life free from constant struggle.
We started dating and the difference between us was clear from the beginning. While I checked prices on the menu, he ordered without looking. While I spoke about taking extra shifts, he talked about buying another flat as an investment. He said things like: You dont have to live so tightly, I can give you a better life, I dont want you to struggle alone. Those words planted themselves in my mind.
I knew if I finished my degree my circumstances would improve, but it would take years. With him, that leap would be instant. He proposed six months after we met. I didnt cry with joy. I stayed quiet. That night, I hardly slept, thinking of my mum, my weary mornings, never having to count pennies again, and having a nice home.
At first, my mum was against it. She said I was too young, he was too old, and she didnt see me in love. I told her love doesnt pay the bills, I was tired of scraping by, and I wanted something better. We cried a lot. In the end, she accepted it, not wanting to lose me.
We married a year and a half after meeting. Everything happened quickly: a big house, new furniture, holidays in the first months. I post smiling pictures, but deep down, I feel like Im playing a part in a story chosen not out of love but for convenience.
I cant say hes a bad man. He provides, hes responsible, an excellent father to our children, helps financially with both his mother and mine, is present in our lives, faithful, and not aggressive. He isnt the problem. I am. I dont love him in the way people truly love. I respect him, admire him, and am grateful for everything hes done, but I dont feel that love that makes your chest ache.
His pace of life is different. He goes to bed early, doesnt like to go out much, prefers quiet plans, doesnt want changes. I still want to travel, to laugh without restraint, to improvise, to feel butterflies. But I adapt. I always adapt.
There are nights when I lie in a massive bed, with air conditioning, silence, and comfort, and feel a strange emptiness. Its not sadness, but the sense that Im living the right life, but not the one that makes me happy. I cook in a lovely kitchen, take the kids to good schools, want for nothing in a material sense but often I feel a lack of excitement, desire, wonder. He says I love you, and I reply I love you too, but the voice inside me sounds different.
Sometimes I ask myself what would have happened if Id stayed single, finished my education without shortcuts, waited for a different kind of love. Sometimes I even feel guilty for thinking that way, knowing there are women who would give anything for this stability. Thats where the guilt arrives: I have no right to complain, but I also cant lie to myself.
What advice would you give for me to find happiness?
