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 to say out loud before: I don’t think I’ve ever truly fallen in love with him the way people describe love.

Im forty-one years old, and I’ve been married to my husband since I was twenty-two. Just two months ago, a thought crept into my minda thought I’d never dared to voice: I dont think Ive ever truly fallen in love with him the way people describe it. It happened during a quiet evening. I was sitting in our lounge, watching TV, when I wondered why Id never felt what other women call butterflies, that restless sweetness, the urge to run into someones arms. The more I dwelled on it, the clearer things became.

My childhood was tough. My dad drank too much, came home drunk, spent his wages on lager, and caused endless trouble. My mum cleaned houses to make up for what he couldnt provide. I grew up surrounded by shouting, exhaustion, and tension. As a teenager, my biggest wish was to leave, to find somewhere of my own, to sleep through the night, and not wake up to shouting. I never dreamt of romanceI dreamt of escape.

I met my husband when I was twenty-two; he was ten years older. Within a month of dating, he was already talking about moving in together, helping me, wanting something serious. I didnt stop to ask myself if I loved him. I saw it as a way outa chance to start over. I packed up my things and left. There was no long deliberation, no soul-searchingjust a burning desire to get away.

I cant say I had a bad life. Hes a good manhard-working, responsible. Weve never struggled for food, managed to pay our rent, then bought a house. He adores our children, takes care of everything. Never have I found proof of betrayal or had wild rows. From the outside, our marriage seems perfect. Thats what confuses me mosttheres no obvious reason for this emptiness I feel.

I love him. I respect him. Im grateful for all hes given me. Hes brought calm, stability. But when I look back, I realise Ive never felt that blazing, passionate love other women talk about. Ive never been deeply jealous, never feared losing him, never waited breathlessly for him to come home. My love has been habit, partnership, gratitudenot fire.

I dont think about leaving. Im not looking for someone else. I dont want to break up our family. Im simply coming to terms with something I never let myself admit: maybe what Ive called love all these years was really need, safetya longing to escape my difficult past. And now, at forty-one, with grown-up kids and a settled home, I finally see it.

Sometimes, I feel guilty for even thinking this way. I scold myself: How dare you question whats given you stability? But at the same time, it feels honest to admit it. Maybe the way I love is simply different. Maybe I had to learn survival before I learned how to love. I dont know. All I know is this thought has stirred something deep insidea feeling Ive carried since I was just a little girl desperate to flee her unhappy home.

What would you do in my place?
I need advice from you.