I really need to talk. Not to complain—just to have someone listen and understand. My family doesn’t know anything; the children and grandchildren think that my husband and I have a strong family, a perfect union. I’ve never had friends I could trust with something like this—I fear gossip, judgment, and I’m too exhausted to explain or justify myself anymore.
John and I have been together for over thirty years. We met back in 1989. I was 22 then, and he was 25. Young, dream-filled, hopeful. He seemed serious, reliable, responsible—the kind of person who could protect, support, someone I could build a life with. We married fairly quickly despite my parents’ reservations. But I insisted because I loved him.
At first, things were tough. The turbulent nineties, two kids, and not enough money. Yet, we managed. By the early 2000s, life seemed to settle—jobs, stability, our own home. We weren’t exactly living in luxury, but there was enough for what we needed, and the kids were well taken care of.
Now, we have three grown children: two daughters with families of their own, who have gifted us grandchildren. Our youngest son isn’t married yet but lives independently. John and I are alone in our flat and should be enjoying peace, quiet, and a second youth. But a few months ago, everything fell apart.
I noticed a change in John. He became irritable and withdrawn. Silent at dinner, spending long hours at work, uninterested in me or the grandchildren. I even considered he might have found someone else. Or maybe there were financial troubles, debts, loans—after all, men aren’t always open about their problems. But what I discovered was much worse than any affair.
John filed for divorce.
When I asked him why, he looked at me coldly and said, “I never loved you. I married out of spite. The woman I loved chose someone wealthy, so I proposed to you. Then you both moved abroad, and I accepted it. But recently she died, and I realized I’ve been living someone else’s life.”
I couldn’t believe it. He spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather. No regret, no compassion. I just sat there, listening, with one thought echoing in my mind: “So, it was all a lie? All these years—just an act?”
He confessed he had seen her even after we married. Then they went their separate ways when she moved to Europe with her husband. We had children, and he decided this was “for the best,” because I was a “good mother and a reliable wife.” Now that she’s gone, he wants “to start living for himself” and demands we sell our flat and buy separate ones.
How does one respond to that?
All my life, I thought we were just a little different. That he wasn’t affectionate—it happens. That he didn’t say “I love you”—men aren’t particularly expressive. I justified and explained it to myself. Now I see—it wasn’t personality. It was indifference. I was there like furniture, a habit. We shared a life, but not our souls.
I’m 56 years old. And I feel betrayed at my most vulnerable. When you’re all spent, having given everything: youth, health, years… And in return, an indifferent “I never loved you.”
What hurts most isn’t for myself. But for the woman I could have been if I had known the truth earlier. If I hadn’t lived with someone to whom all this was indifferent. If I hadn’t carried his children, waited up for him at night, cooked his favorite meals. And he just tolerated it. Lived beside me because it was easier. He had his reasons—”revenge,” “resignation,” “convenience.” But is that an excuse?
I don’t know how to live now. It turns out I lived an illusion. That nothing was genuine. That love isn’t guaranteed. That you can be a good wife—faithful, reliable, loving—and still end up unwanted.
Ladies, women who’ve been through something similar—how did you cope? How did you let go? How did you start breathing again? I’m not young anymore. I just want a bit of peace. Some respect. A little warmth—not from him, no. From the world. From myself.
I’m tired of being strong. But, it seems, I have no choice.
