Before the wedding, he carried me in his arms—afterwards, it was as if he’d fallen out of love.
When I first met Oliver, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. He was the kind of man written about in romance novels—attentive, tender, doting. He didn’t just take an interest in me; he lived for me. Calls every few hours: *”How are you feeling?”* *”Did you dress warm enough?”* *”Have you eaten today?”* If the sky darkened and rain began to fall, he’d appear outside my office with an umbrella. Every morning, a fresh bouquet waited on my desk—tulips, roses, daisies. My colleagues were green with envy, and I could scarcely believe my luck.
He wrapped me in warmth, like a living embrace. We walked hand in hand through London’s lamplit streets at night, talking about nothing, giggling like children. Then came the proposal—classic, on one knee, a ring glinting in the soft light of the café where we’d first met. He even travelled to meet my parents in Manchester—that’s how serious it was. I floated on air, as if watching a film where I was the heroine.
But the fairytale ended the moment we left the registry office.
At first, the change was subtle. The morning texts vanished. The *”How’s my love?”* calls stopped. The flowers disappeared as if they’d never existed. His kisses grew perfunctory—like duty, not desire. Once, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. Now, he scarcely seemed to notice I existed.
And at home… at home, he built walls. Before, he’d grab tools without being asked, eager to help—now, just a sigh: *”Call a handyman if it bothers you.”* Or worse: *”You wanted this—you deal with it.”* Dishes piled up, dust gathered on the floors, even hammering a nail became a drama. Yet he’d boasted before the wedding that he could build a house with his bare hands.
I don’t understand. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same—slender, well-kept, pretty. Men still glance at me in the street. But him? As if I’ve become ordinary to him. Mundane. Unimportant.
Mum says, *”It’s like that for everyone. Marriage isn’t about romance. Be grateful—he’s got a job, puts food on the table. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t stray. Count your blessings.”* But I can’t. I won’t settle for a man who merely exists beside me. I want to feel loved. Not just… conveniently placed.
Last night, I searched his face for any flicker of recognition. He didn’t notice. He scrolled through his phone, smiling at the screen, lost in something—or someone—else. A cold thought twisted inside me: *What if there’s another woman?* Could that be it? His coldness, his indifference, his distance… is it betrayal?
I don’t want to believe it. But what if I’m right?
How do I even ask him? How do I drag the truth into the light? Because I love him. Despite everything, I love him. I won’t hand him to another woman. But if he has betrayed me… I don’t know if I could forgive.
Has anyone else lived through this? How do you cope when the man you married—before and after—is two completely different people? How do you escape the gnawing dread that you’re just… furniture in his life? I don’t know what to do. But I can’t stay silent any longer.
