Last Tuesday, I almost went through with filing for divorce.
I was sitting in my car, staring at the paperwork on my lap, certain as anything: the spark was gone. I couldnt feel a thingjust total emptiness inside. Rather than driving home, I took off towards my parents place. I was searching for somewhere to hide, or maybe just an excuse to delay the inevitable.
My parents have been together for 54 years. Theyre the sort of couple you see in faded old family albums: Dads a retired factory foreman, quiet and steady; Mum was a nurse and knows how to run a household with gentle efficiency.
While Dad pottered about in the shed with the old Morris Minor, I sat down with my mum at the kitchen table. My insides were burning, and I quietly asked her, Mum, my voice barely above a whisper as she folded the laundry. Do youafter all these yearsstill love Dad? Or are you just used to each other?
She paused, her hands in midair. She gave me a look I couldnt quite deciphera little tender, maybe a bit amused. She didnt reply at once. Instead, she reached over, squeezed my hand with her warm fingers, gave me a tired little smile, then went back to neatly folding towels.
An hour later, I left, feeling rather irritated. I thought Mum just didnt understand how our generation desperately needs emotional connection and all those unspoken signs of affection.
But as I pulled up outside my own flat, my phone buzzed. There was a long message from Mumon WhatsApp, no less. She isnt handy with gadgets, so seeing her write that much almost startled me.
I read her note, sitting alone in the car. By the end, my cheeks were streaked with tears.
My darling girl,
Today you asked me if I still love your father. I didnt answer right away. Love isnt something you can sum up in five minutes over a pile of laundry, but I want you to know the truth.
Your question made me smilenot because its silly, but because the answer isnt tidy.
Do I love him the way I did in 1972? No. If youre looking for butterflies in the stomach, or that giddy nervousness of a first date, or fireworks from the filmsno, not anymore.
But that isnt love. Thats adrenaline.
Love, after half a century together, isnt a whirlwind. Its roots.
Its not the sort of feeling that knocks your feet out from under you. Its the sort that steadies you, holds you upright when the world wants to blow you over.
Rather than racing hearts, its a kind of peace. My hands dont tremble; instead, this love gives me the strength to pull myself out of bed when my joints are aching.
We dont have dramatic surprises anymore. There are no grand gestures. But theres something far better: our rituals.
Its the kettle switched on at precisely 6:00am because he knows how much I need that cup of tea. Its our silly little tiffs about which way the plates go in the rack or who forgot to turn off the hallway light last night.
Its the way he instinctively tucks the duvet around my shoulder when I cough in my sleep.
Your lot might think that sounds dull. But really, darling, thats everything.
At my time of life, I dont need someone to buy me diamonds or take me to Paris. I need someone who listens when I say my backs playing up. Someone who silently hands over a tissue when I start crying at the news, without asking what for?
Someone who doesnt walk out of the room when Im at my lowest and cant bear myself.
And your father does just that. Without a fuss. Without waiting for thanks. Hes simply there.
Loving someone for fifty years isnt like it is in the books. Its like learning a secret language only the two of you speak. Its being able to look across a crowded room and just know what they’re thinking.
You share bills, worries over the children, grief for lost friends, and a stubborn will to keep going.
So, in answer to your question: yes. I do love himmadly.
But not the young man I met in a café in ’72. I love the life weve built. I love the calm that comes from knowinghowever chaotic the world gets, whatever storms are raging outsidehes my safe harbour.
Dont look for fireworks, my love. Find someone who feels like home.
I switched off the engine. Tore up the paperwork on the passenger seat. Went back home to my husband sitting on the sofa, looking as worn out as I felt.
Fancy a cup of tea? he asked.
Yes, I said, Id really like that.
It all starts with butterfliesbut it endures because of the roots. And thats the lesson Ill keep with me.
