I married to escape poverty, and now I find myself living in an incredibly beautiful cage. Im 35. When I was 20, I wasnt desperately poor, but every penny was carefully counted. I was a studentattending university in the evenings, working days at a bakery. Id come home exhausted, legs swollen, always wondering if I could afford transport, textbooks, food, and fees that month. I wanted a calmer lifenot luxury, just stability.
Thats when I met him. He was forty, a university lecturer, always well-dressed, drove his own car, talked about holidays, investments, and security. I didnt fall in love instantly. Yes, I admired him, but more than his looks or his words, I was drawn to what he stood for: rest, comfort, a life without relentless struggle.
We started seeing each other, and the difference was obvious from the beginning. While I scrutinised menu prices, he ordered without batting an eye. I spoke of needing a second job; he spoke about buying a second flat as an investment. Hed say things like, You dont have to live so tightly, I can give you a better life, I dont want you to fight alone. These words anchored themselves in my mind.
I knew finishing my degree would eventually help, but it would take years. With him, the leap was instantaneous. He proposed just six months after we met. I didnt cry for joy; I simply went quiet. That night, I hardly slept. I thought about my mum, my weary mornings, the idea of never counting pennies again, and having a lovely house.
My mum was against it at first. She said I was too young, that he was too old, that she couldnt see me in love. I replied that love doesnt pay bills, I was tired of going without, and needed something better. We cried a lot together. In the end, she acceptedshe didnt want to lose me.
We married a year and a half after meeting. Everything happened quickly: big house, new furniture, trips in the early months. I posted smiling photos, but deep down I felt like an actress rehearsing a role chosen for comfort, not love.
Hes not a bad man, by any means. Hes supportive, responsible, a fantastic father to our children, helps both his mother and mine, is present, faithful, never aggressive. Hes not the problem. I am. I dont love him the way I know real love should feel. I respect him, admire him, and am grateful for all hes done, but I dont feel that heart-shaking love.
His pace is so different. Early nights, not keen on going out, prefers quiet plans, no desire for adventure. I still want to travel, laugh loudly, improvise, feel butterflies. But I adapt. I always adapt.
Some nights, lying in a huge bed, air conditioning humming, comfortable silence, I feel an odd emptiness. Not sadness, exactlyjust the sense that Im living the right life, but not the life that makes me truly happy. I cook in a stunning kitchen, take my kids to excellent schools, want for nothing material… yet I often lack emotion, yearning, excitement. He says, I love you, and I reply, I love you too, but inside, my voice sounds foreign.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Id stayed single, finished my degree without shortcuts, waited for another kind of love. I feel guilty for even thinking it, since some women would trade anything for this stability. Thats where the guilt lies: I have no right to complain, yet I cant lie to myself.
If anyone asked me for advice, Id say this: Happiness isnt just about comfortits about feeling alive. I learned that security is priceless, but it shouldnt cost your joy.
