So, I’m forty-one now and I’ve been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. About two months ago, I started thinking something Id never dared to say out loud before: I dont think Ive ever actually fallen in love with him the way people describe real love. It was just a typical eveningI was sitting on the sofa watching tellyand suddenly I wondered why Id never felt those butterflies in your stomach, that giddy feeling, the urge to run up and wrap your arms around someone like other women talk about. As I kept thinking, it all started to make sense.
I grew up in a tough household. My dad was a heavy drinker, always coming home drunk, spending his wages at the pub and causing trouble. Mum cleaned other people’s houses to fill the gap he left behind. My whole childhood was full of arguments, stress, and exhaustion. As a teenager, all I wanted was to leave home, have a place of my own, sleep peacefully and not wake up to shouting. I never dreamed of loveI just longed to escape.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two and he was ten years older than me. After just a month of seeing each other, he started talking about moving in together, committing, and helping me build a future. I didnt even stop to ask myself if I was in loveI saw it as a chance to get away, to start again. So I packed my things and left. There wasnt a long deliberation or deep doubtjust a desperate need to get out.
I cant say Ive had a bad life. Hes a good manhardworking, reliable. Weve never worried about meals on the table, always paid the rent and eventually bought a house. He adores our children, takes care of everything. Theres never been any sign hes cheated or any major rows. To outsiders, my marriage is ideal.” And thats what confuses me mostbecause there isnt really any big reason for this odd emptiness I feel.
I care about him. I respect him. Im grateful for so much. Hes given me calm and security. But looking back, I realise I never felt that burning lovethe passion other women talk about. Ive never felt wild jealousy, or feared losing him, or the thrill waiting for him to walk through the door. My love has always been more like routine, companionship, gratitudebut never fire.
Im not thinking of leaving. Im not looking for someone else. I dont want to break my family apart. Im just trying to understand something I never dared to face before: maybe what Ive called love for all these years was actually need, safety, and the urge to escape a difficult life. And now, at forty-one, with grown up kids and a comfortable home, I see it clearly.
Sometimes I feel guilty for even thinking it. I tell myself: How could you question whats given you stability? But at the same time, I feel like its honest to admit it. Maybe my way of loving is different. Maybe I learnt to survive first, and only afterwards thought about falling in love. I dont know. I do know that this realisation has stirred up so much inside me, things Ive carried since I was that little girl who just wanted to run away from home.
What would you do in my shoes?
I really need your advice.
