I’ve been meaning to get this off my chest. Not to complain, but just in hopes someone might listen and understand. My family assumes that my husband and I have a perfectly strong union. The kids and grandkids see us as the ideal couple. I’ve never really had friends I could confide in—fear of gossip and judgement held me back, and now I just don’t have the energy to explain or justify things.
John and I were together for over thirty years. We met in 1989. I was 22, and he was 25. We were young, full of dreams and hopes. He seemed serious, reliable, everything I thought a partner should be—someone who could offer protection and support, someone I could build a life with. Despite my parents’ reservations, we quickly married. I was in love with him.
The early days were tough. The challenging nineties, two children, always stretched thin financially. But we got through it. By the early 2000s, life seemed more settled—jobs, stability, our own home. We weren’t exactly living in luxury, but we managed, and the kids never went without.
Now we have three grown-up children: two daughters with families of their own have given us grandchildren. Our youngest, a son, isn’t married yet but has moved out. It’s just John and me in our flat, meant to be enjoying the peace and quiet, a second youth of sorts. But a few months ago, everything shattered.
I noticed a change in John. He became irritable, withdrawn. Silent over dinner, disappearing at work, showing no interest in me or the grandchildren. I thought maybe he was having an affair. Or facing some financial stress—debts, loans—that he was too proud to admit. But the truth was even more devastating than infidelity.
John filed for divorce.
When I asked why, he looked at me coldly and said, “I never loved you. I married out of spite. The woman I loved married someone wealthy, and in my anger, I proposed to you. When she left the country with her husband, I gave in. But she passed away recently, and I’ve realized I’ve never lived my own life.”
I couldn’t believe it. He spoke with the calmness of discussing the weather, without a hint of regret or compassion. I just sat there, listening, as the thought hammered in my mind: “So, it was all a lie? All these years, just a facade?”
He admitted that he had met with her even after our wedding. Then they went their separate ways when she moved to Europe. We went on to have children, and he decided it was “for the best” because I was “a good mother and dependable wife.” Now that she’s dead, he wants “to start living for himself” and insists on selling the flat and splitting up.
How do you respond to something like that?
I used to think our differences were just part of life. That his lack of affection was just how some men are. He never said “I love you,” but I attributed it to a lack of sentimentality. Now I see it wasn’t his nature—it was indifference. I was just there, like furniture, a habit. We shared a home but not a life.
I’m 56 now, and I feel betrayed at my most vulnerable. I’ve given everything: youth, health, years, only to be met with the dispassionate words, “I never loved you.”
But it’s not myself I pity the most. It’s the woman I might have been, had I known the truth sooner. If I hadn’t shared my life with someone who felt nothing. If I hadn’t borne his children, stayed up late waiting for him to come home, cooked his favorite meals. Meanwhile, he merely tolerated me because it was easier. He had his reasons—”revenge,” “resignation,” “convenience.” But do those justify it?
I don’t know how to go on from here. It’s like finding out my life was an illusion. That nothing was real. That love isn’t a guarantee. You can be a good wife, loyal, steadfast, loving, and still be dispensable.
Ladies, women who have been through similar experiences—how did you cope? How did you let go and find your breath again? I’m not young anymore. All I wish for is some 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.
