Last Tuesday, I nearly filed for divorce.
I was sitting in my car, staring at the paperwork, feeling absolutely certain: the spark was gone. There were no more feelingsjust emptiness left behind.
Instead of heading home, I drove straight to my parents house. I was searching for a safe haven, or maybe just an excuse to delay the inevitable.
My parents have been together for 54 years. Theyre the picture of an old-fashioned English coupleDad, a retired factory foreman, quiet and practical; Mum, a former nurse who now keeps the house running with calm efficiency.
While Dad tinkered with his beloved Morris Minor in the garage, I sat down at the kitchen table with Mum. My heart was burning, and I eventually asked,
Mum, I whispered as she folded clean tea towels, be honest after fifty years, do you still love Dad? Or is it just, you know, habit?
She paused. She looked at me with an expression I couldnt quite readpart gentle smile, part weary sympathy. She didnt answer right away. Instead, she patted my hand with her warm, soft palm, smiled in that wise, tired way of hers, and turned back to the towels.
I left about an hour later, feeling even more agitated. I thought she simply didnt understand what people now call spiritual connection or the need for emotional gestures.
But as I pulled into my drive, my phone buzzed. There was a long message from Mum on WhatsApp. Shes not one for texting, so seeing that many words from her was a surprise.
I read her message, sitting there in my car. By the end, I couldnt hold back the tears.
My darling girl,
Today you asked me if I still love your father. I didnt answer on the spot because love isnt something you can explain in the five minutes it takes to fold the laundry. But I want you to know the truth.
Your question made me smilenot because it was silly, but because the answer is so layered.
Do I love him as I did in 1972? No. If youre after butterflies in the pit of your stomach, the nerves of a first date, or the fireworks from those Hollywood filmsthen no, I havent got that.
But thats not love. Thats adrenaline.
Love, after a lifetime together, isnt whirlwind. Its roots.
It doesnt knock you off your feet anymore. If anything, it anchors you when the world tries to blow you over.
That kind of love doesnt make my heart race; it makes it steady. My hands dont tremble; instead, this love is what gives me the strength to get out of bed when my joints ache.
We dont have grand surprises at our age. No more sweeping, romantic gestures. What we do have are rituals.
Like the kettle that starts boiling at 6 am sharp, because he knows I need my tea first thing. Our little squabbles about how plates should be stacked on the drying rack, or who left the hall light on last night.
Its the way he instinctively pulls the duvet over my shoulder without fully waking up when I start coughing at midnight.
Your generation might think its all boring and trivial. But actually, that is everything.
I dont need a man wholl buy me diamonds or whisk me off to Paris. I need someone who will listen when I say my back hurts, who will quietly pass me a tissue when news on the telly makes me cry, and not ask ‘why’.
Someone who wont leave the room when Im moody and dont even like myself.
And your father? He does all that. Without fuss. Without expecting a thank you. Hes simply there.
Loving someone for fifty years isnt like the novels. Its like learning a secret language, one no one else in the world speaks. The ability to look at each other across a crowded room and know exactly whats on their mind.
Because you share bills, you share worries over your children, you share grief for old friends gone, and both of you stubbornly keep marching on.
So, to answer your question: Yes, I still love him, deeply.
But not the boy I met in the café in 72. I love the life we built together. I love the calm that comes from knowing no matter how mad the world gets, or how fiercely the storms rage outside, he is my haven.
Dont waste your time chasing fireworks, love. Find someone who feels like home.
I switched off the ignition. Tore up the divorce papers there on the passenger seat. Walked through the door to find my husband on the sofa, looking just as weary as I felt.
Fancy a cuppa? he asked.
Yes, I said quietly. Id love one.
Everything begins with butterflies. But it survives because of roots.
