Last Tuesday, I nearly filed for divorce.
I was parked in my car, shuffling through a pile of paperwork, completely certain: the spark had fizzled out. Not a single warm feeling leftjust a cavernous emptiness.
Instead of turning homeward, I sped off to Mum and Dads. I suppose I needed a bit of a hideout, or at least an excuse to dodge the inevitable.
My parents have been married for 54 years. The classic couple from old family albums: hima retired engineer, man of few words; hera former nurse who manages the household with the silent efficiency of a traffic warden.
While Dad pottered about in the garage with his battered Ford, I found myself at the kitchen table with Mum. My insides were prickling, so I asked quietly,
Mum, I murmured, watching her fold freshly laundered tea towels with those expert hands, be honest after fifty years, do you actually still love Dad? Or are you two just used to each other?
She paused mid-fold, giving me a look I couldnt possibly decodesomewhere between gentle pity and a hint of a knowing smile. She didnt reply straight away. Just patted my hand warmly, smiled in an achingly tiredyet wisesort of way, and returned to her towels.
I drove off an hour later, completely irked. Clearly, I thought, she just doesnt understand this generations desperate need for spiritual connections and emotional expression.
But as I pulled up in front of my flat, my phone vibrated. A massively long WhatsApp message from Mum. Shes not exactly glued to her phone, so the sheer volume of text was surprising.
I sat there in my car and read it. By the time I reached the end, I was a tear-stained mess.
My darling girl,
Today you asked if I love your father. I didnt answer right away, because love isnt something you can sum up in five minutes while folding towels. But I want you to have the truth.
Your question made me smile, not because its silly, but because the answer is complicated.
Do I love him like I did in 1972? No. If youre searching for butterflies, that nervous first-date flutter, or those Hollywood pyrotechnics then no, I dont have that anymore.
But thats not love, thats adrenaline.
Loving someone after a lifetime together isnt a whirlwindits roots.
Its not the thing that knocks you for six. Quite the oppositeits the thing that steadies you when the world tries to blow you over.
This kind of love doesnt leave my heart thumpingit calms me. My hands dont tremble; in fact, this love is what gets me out of bed when the arthritis acts up.
Gone are the grand surprises. Were not ones for lavish romantic gestures. Instead, we have something far better: rituals.
The kettle always clicks on at 6am sharp, because he knows I need my tea piping hot. There are those silly little debateshow to stack the plates on the rack, or who left the hall light burning last night.
Its the way he absentmindedly tugs the duvet over my shoulder if I cough in my sleep.
Your generation might think this all sounds terribly dull and nitpicky. But honestlythats everything.
At this stage of life, I dont need a man to buy me diamonds or whisk me away to Venice. I need the one who notices when I say my backs giving me trouble. The one who silently hands over a tissue when I cry over the news, and doesnt ask why.
The one who doesnt leave the room when Im down in the dumps and cant stand myself.
And your dad? He does all that. No fanfare. No hint of wheres my thank you. Hes just there.
Loving someone for fifty years isnt something out of a romance novel. Its learning a secret code that only the two of you can speak. Its being able to look at each other from across a crowded room and know exactly whats going on in their mind.
Because you have shared bank accounts, shared worries about your children, shared heartbreak when friends pass away, and a shared stubbornness to keep going.
So, to answer your question: yes. I do still love him, madly.
But not the boy I met in the café back in 72. I love the life we built. I love the deep peace that comes with knowing, no matter how bonkers the world gets, or what storms rage outside, he is my safe place.
Dont look for fireworks, sweetheart. Find the person who becomes your home.
I turned off the engine. Tore up the divorce papers on the passenger seat. Walked in to find my husband slouched on the settee, looking every bit as knackered as I felt.
Fancy a cuppa? he asked.
Yes, I replied. I really do.
It all starts with butterflies, but its the roots that keep it going.
