The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, the TV murmuring in the background. I sat curled up on the old sofa, lost in thought. Im forty-one now, and have been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. It was only a couple of months ago that a truth Id never dared to speak aloud began to surface: I dont think Ive ever truly been in love with him in the way people describe love. That evening, as I watched yet another drama unfold on the screen, I wondered why Id never felt those butterflies other women talk aboutthe fluttering excitement, the sweet anticipation, the urge to run and throw my arms around someone.
The pieces started to fall into place.
My childhood was hardly idyllic. My father drank heavily, stumbling in at night, wasting his wages on pints down at the pub, causing chaos. Mum scrubbed other peoples houses just to make up what he squandered. I grew up with shouting, exhaustion, and constant tension. As a teenager, all I dreamed of was leaving that place, having my own space, sleeping peacefully, free from the morning rows. I didnt fantasise about loveI longed to escape.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two. He was ten years older, steady, and seemed to offer everything Id been missing. Within weeks of us dating, he talked about moving in together, about helping me, about commitment. I never stopped to ask myself if I was truly in love. I saw a chance to get away, to start afresh. I said yes. Packed my things. Left home. There wasnt any deep soul-searching, no agonising doubtsjust that overwhelming need to be free.
I cant say my life has been bad. Hes a good manhard-working, dependable. Weve never struggled for food, the rent was always paid, and eventually we bought our own place. He adores our children, takes care of everything, and Ive never had any reason to suspect him of cheating or to fear big arguments. From the outside, our marriage looks perfect. Thats what confuses me the most: theres no major reason for the emptiness I feel.
I do care about him. I respect him. Im genuinely thankful for all hes given me: calm, reliability, a safe haven. But when I look back, I realise Ive never felt that fierce, passionate love other women talk about. Ive never felt jealous, never feared losing him, never had that rush waiting for him at the door. My love has been more routine, partnership, gratitudebut not the fire.
I dont want to leave. Im not searching for someone else. I dont wish to break my family apart. Im just acknowledging something Ive never allowed myself to say: that what Ive called love all these years might have been something elseneed, safety, an aching desire to escape a difficult past. Now, at forty-one, with grown-up children and a stable home, I finally see it.
Sometimes I feel guilty for even having these thoughts. I tell myself, How dare you question whats given you this security? Yet at the same time, I think its honest to admit it. Maybe the way I love is simply different. Maybe I learnt to survive first, to build walls, before I ever learnt how to fall in love. I dont know. But I do know this realisation has stirred memories Ive carried from the time I was just a frightened girl desperate to run from home.
What would you do if you were in my shoes?
Im asking you for your advice.
