I’m 41 Years Old and Have Been Married to My Husband Since I Was 22. Two Months Ago, I Started Thinking Something I’ve Never Dared Say Out Loud Before: I Don’t Think That…

I am now forty-one years old, and I have been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. It was only two months ago that I allowed myself to truly think something I had never dared speak aloud: I dont know if I have ever loved him in the way people so often describe love. The thought came to me, as these things do, on an ordinary evening as I sat in our lounge watching the television. I began to wonder why I had never felt what other women often call butterflies, that sweet restlessness, the urge to run and embrace the one you love. The more I thought about it, the more the pieces seemed to fall into place.
You see, I come from a rather difficult background. My father drank heavily, often stumbling in late at night with the familys money squandered at the pub. My mother worked herself to the bone as a cleaner to make up for what he spent. Our home was always full of quarrelling, exhaustion and tension. As a teenager, all I wanted was to escape. I longed for my own space, to sleep through the night undisturbed, to wake up in peace. I never dreamt of loveI only dreamt of leaving.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two and he was ten years my senior. Barely a month into our relationship, he spoke of us moving in together, said he wanted something serious, that he would look after me. I never paused to ask myself if I was in love. Instead, I saw a way outa chance to leave that house behind, to start my own life. I accepted almost without a thought. I packed my things and left. There was no soul-searching, no doubts, just an overwhelming urge to get away.
I cant say life has been unkind. Hes a good man: hard-working, dependable. We never lacked for food, the rent was always paid, and later we bought a home of our own. He adores our children, takes care of everything around the house. Ive never had reason to suspect him of betraying me or causing a scene. From the outside, our marriage looks utterly perfect. Strangely, thats what unsettles me mosttheres no clear reason for me to feel this hollow space inside.
I do love him. I respect and appreciate him deeply. Hes given me safety, and for that I am grateful. But, when I reflect on all these years, I see that Ive never known that wild, burning passion other women speak of. Ive never felt that deep jealousy or the fear of losing him, never the thrill of waiting for him to walk through the door. My love has always been more habit, companionship, gratitude, but not fire.
And yet, I do not contemplate leaving. I am not searching for someone else. I have no desire to break up my family. I am simply trying to admit something I have never allowed myself to say aloud before: that perhaps what I called love all these years was really need, security, an escape from a hard life. Now, at forty-one, with grown children and a settled home, I see it for what it is.
At times, I feel a wave of guilt even for having these thoughts. I scold myself, How dare you question something that has given you stability? And yet, strangely, I feel it is only honest to admit it. Perhaps my way of loving has always been different. Perhaps I first had to learn how to survive, long before I ever learned about falling in love. I cannot say for certain. All I know is that this realisation has stirred up so many things from long ago, from that little girl who simply wanted to run away.
What would you do in my place?
I would genuinely appreciate your advice.