I married to escape poverty, and now I find myself living in a beautiful cage. I am thirty-five years old. When I was twenty, I wasnt destitute, but every penny mattered. I was a student, attending evening classes at university, and working days at a small bakery. Each night, Id return home exhausted, my legs aching and swollen, wondering if Id have enough for bus fares, photocopies, food, and tuition. My dreams werent about luxurythey were about stability, a life where I didnt have to count coins after every expense.
It was during those years that I met him. He was forty, a university lecturer, always sharply dressed, with his own car, speaking of travels, investments, and security. I didnt fall in love straight away. I liked him, certainly, but more than his look or his words, I was drawn to what he represented: rest, peace, a life without perpetual struggle.
We began seeing each other, and from the start the contrast between us was stark. Where I browsed menus for prices, he ordered freely, not caring about cost. While I talked of taking extra shifts, he discussed buying another flat for investment. Hed tell me things like, No need to live so tight, I can give you a better life, You dont need to battle on your own. Those words stayed with me.
I knew that finishing my degree would eventually improve my situation, but that would take years. Being with him, the change would be swift. He proposed half a year after we met. I didnt cry from joy; I simply went silent. That night, I barely slept, thinking about my mother, about those weary mornings, about never having to count pennies again, about a lovely house.
My mother was against it at first. She said I was too young, that he was too old, that she didnt see love in my eyes. I told her love doesnt pay the bills, and that I was tired of scraping by, longing for something better. We cried many tears. In the end, she accepted, not wanting to lose me.
We married a year and a half after meeting. Everything happened quicklya large house, new furnishings, travels in the early months. I posted smiling photos, but inside I felt like an actress performing a role chosen for comfort rather than love.
I cant say hes a bad man. Hes dependable, responsible, an excellent father to our children, supports both his mother and mine, is present in our lives, never cheats, never shows aggression. He is not the issue. I am. I dont love him in that deep, true way. I respect him, I admire him, Im grateful for all hes donebut I dont have that love that stirs your soul.
His rhythm of life differs from mine. He retires early, dislikes going out, prefers calm plans, shuns change. I still long to travel, to laugh aloud, to improvise, to feel butterflies. But I adapt. I always adapt.
There are nights when I lie in our enormous bed, air quiet and cool, all comfort in place, and yet I sense a peculiar emptiness. Not sadness, but a feeling that I am living the proper life, only it isnt the life that brings me happiness. I cook in a beautiful kitchen, send our children to good schools; nothing material is wanting. Yet often, I miss emotion, desire, dreams. He says I love you, and I reply I love you too, but inside, my words sound hollow.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened had I stayed single, finished university without shortcuts, waited for another kind of love. Sometimes I feel guilty just for thinking it, knowing many women would give anything for such steadiness. And thats where the guilt lives: I have no right to complain, and yet I cannot lie to myself.
What advice would you give me, to find happiness?
