I’m forty-one, and Ive been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. Two months ago, I stumbled upon a thought that had never dared cross my lips: I dont think I ever truly fell in love with him in that swirling, poetic way people speak of. It was a typical evening, sitting in my lounge watching the telly, when I wondered why Id never felt what other women call butterflies in the stomachthat sweet, restless anticipation, the urge to dash across a room and hug someone tight. The more I thought about it, the more the pieces slotted quietly into place.
I came from a home stitched together with hardship. My father drank heavily; hed stagger home late, spending his wages on pints and leaving trouble in his wake. Mum kept things afloat cleaning houses for others, patching up what Dad didnt provide. I grew up amongst shouting, exhaustion, and the constant pulse of tension. As a teenager, I only wanted outmy own space, a calm bed, no morning rows echoing through the walls. I didnt yearn for love; I yearned to escape.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two and he was thirty-two. After only a month of seeing each other, he was already talking about moving in together, saying hed help me, that he wanted something real, something lasting. I never sat down and asked myself whether I was in love. I saw it as my chancemy ticket away from home, towards a new life. I packed up and walked out. There was no lengthy pondering, no agonising doubt, just this keen urge to leave.
I cant say Ive had a bad life. Hes a good mandiligent, dependable. Weve always had food on the table, paid our rent, then bought a house. He adores our children, handles everything with care. Ive never found any trace of affairs or tempers. From the outside, our marriage looks ideal. Thats what confuses me most, because I cant pinpoint any reason for this odd emptiness inside.
I do care for him. I respect him. Im thankful for many things hes given me. He offers me peace, steadiness. Yet when I look back, I realise Ive never felt the fierce, consuming love people talk about. Never the pit-of-the-stomach jealousy, the fear of losing him, the thrill of waiting for him to come home. My love has always been shaped by habit, partnership, gratitudenot flames.
I dont think of leaving. Im not searching for someone else. I wont unravel my family. Im just untangling something I never dared admit: maybe what Ive called love all these years was really need, safety, and the longing to escape a turbulent life. Now, at forty-one, with grown children and a settled house, I finally see it.
Sometimes I feel guilty even for thinking it. I chide myselfHow dare you question what gave you stability? But equally, it feels honest to admit it. Perhaps the way I love is different. Perhaps I learned to survive before I learned to fall in love. I dont know. All I know is, this thought has stirred up things long dormant since I was that small girl dreaming only of fleeing home.
What would you do if you were me?
Id really like your advice.
