I married to escape poverty, but now I live in a gilded cage, beautiful but confining. Im thirty-five now. When I was twenty, I wasnt destitute, but every penny had to be counted. I was a university student in the evenings and spent my days working in a bakery, coming home exhausted, my feet swollen, wondering whether Id have enough money this month for bus fares, photocopies, food, and tuition. I longed for a quieter lifenot luxury, just stability.
Thats when I met him. He was forty then, a university lecturer, always impeccably dressed, with his own car, speaking of holidays, investments, security. I didnt fall in love at first sight. I liked him, yes, but it was less about his face or his words and more about what he represented: rest, calm, a life free from constant anxiety over survival.
We started seeing each other, and from the very beginning, the differences were obvious. While I scanned the prices on menus, he ordered without a second thought. I talked about picking up an extra shift; he talked about buying another flat as an investment. Hed say things like, You dont have to live so tightly, I can give you a better life, You dont have to fight alone. Those words seared themselves into my memory.
I knew that finishing my education would improve my situation, but I also knew it would take years. With him, the leap was instant. He proposed to me after six months. I didnt cry with joy. I fell silent. That night I barely slept, thinking of my mother, my tired mornings, the hope of never counting pennies again, the possibility of a lovely house.
My mother was against it at first. She said I was too young, he was too old, she didnt see me in love. I answered, Love doesnt pay bills. Im tired of struggling. I want something better. We cried a lot. In the end, she accepted it; she didnt want to lose me.
We married a year and a half after meeting. Everything happened quickly: big house, new furnishings, holidays during the first months. I posted smiling photos, but deep inside I felt like an actress playing a partchosen not by passion, but by convenience.
I cant say hes a bad man. Hes a provider, responsible, a wonderful father to our children. He supports both his mother and mine financially, hes present in our lives, hes faithful, never aggressive. Hes not the problem. I am. I dont love him in the way one loves deeply. I respect him, I admire him, I am grateful for everything hes done, but I dont feel that wild, chest-tightening love.
His rhythm is so different. He goes to bed early, dislikes nights out, prefers quiet plans, resists changes. I still want to travel, laugh out loud, improvise, feel butterfliesand yet, I adapt. I always adapt.
There are nights when I lie in our huge bed, surrounded by silence, comfort, the soft hum of air conditioning, feeling an odd emptiness. Its not sadnessjust the sense I am living the right life, but not the life that truly makes me happy. I cook in a beautiful kitchen, take our children to good schools, lack nothing materialbut so often I miss emotion, yearning, dreams. He says, I love you, and I reply, I love you too, but inside my voice sounds different.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Id stayed single, finished my degree without shortcuts, waited for another kind of love. Sometimes I feel guilty for even thinking these things, because there are women whod give anything for this security. And thats where the guilt strikes: I have no right to complain, but I cannot lie to myself either.
What advice would you give me, to finally find happiness?
