I am 41 years old and have been married to my husband since I was 22. Two months ago, I began to consider something I’d never dared to admit out loud before: I don’t think I’ve ever truly fallen in love with him in the way people describe love.

Im 41 years old and have been married to my husband since I was 22. Two months ago, I started thinking about something I never dared utter before: I dont think Ive ever truly been in love with him in the passionate way people describe love. It was an ordinary eveningI was sitting in the lounge, watching TV, when I wondered why I had never felt those so-called butterflies, the sweet restlessness, the rush to embrace someone. The more I mulled it over, the more things began to make sense.

I grew up in a tough household. My father was heavy on the drink, coming home late and squandering his wages on alcohol, causing endless trouble. Mum worked cleaning homes, doing her best to make up for what he didnt provide. My childhood was a blur of shouting, exhaustion, and constant tension. As a teenager, my only dream was to leave that househave a place of my own, sleep in peace, not wake to the sound of arguments. I never longed for romanceI longed to escape.

When I met my husband, I was 22 and he was 10 years older than me. Barely a month after we started going out, he was already talking about moving in together, helping me, wanting something serious. I never stopped to ask myself if I was actually in love. Instead, I saw a chance to flee, to start afresh. I accepted quickly. I packed my things and left. There was no deep reflection, no lingering doubtsjust an overpowering urge to get away.

I cant say my lifes been bad. Hes a good husbandhardworking, reliable. Weve never gone short of food, paid the rent, and eventually bought a house. He adores our children; hes caring and devoted. Theres never been any proof of cheating or heated arguments. From the outside, our marriage looks ideal. Thats whats so confusing: there isnt any obvious reason for me to feel this strange emptiness.

I do care for him deeply. I respect him. Im grateful for so much. He gives me calm, security, stability. But looking back, I realise Ive never felt that fierce, consuming love other women describe. Never felt strong jealousy, the fear of losing him, the excitement waiting for him to come home. My love feels more like routine, partnership, gratitudebut not fiery passion.

Im not considering leaving him. Im not searching for someone else. I dont want to break up my family. Im simply coming to terms with something I never let myself admit: that maybe what I called love all these years was really a need for security, a longing to leave behind a troubled life. And now, at 41, with grown children and a settled home, I see it clearly.

Sometimes I feel guilty for even thinking this. I tell myself, How dare you question something thats given you stability? Yet at the same time, it feels honest to acknowledge it. Maybe my way of loving is just different. Maybe I learned survival first, romance later. I dont know. All I know is this realisation has stirred up feelings Ive carried since I was that little girl desperate to run away from home.

What would you do in my place?

I really do want your advice.