You captivated me when we first met. You were fiercely attractive and hugely independent, and you burned brighter than anybody else in the room. I had never encountered a woman like you. I feel it only fair to remind you that I also shone in those days, able to silence a room with a ballad sung from the heart or to regale people with a humorous story. I was handsome, fit, funny and successful. (I believe I still am.) We had lots in common – theatre, music and an appreciation of good food. We shared the same values and a sense of what was right and wrong. And in those early days, we enjoyed each other.

A year after meeting, we moved in together. Three months later, we got engaged. Around this time I began to lose you. Whatever the reason, we began to talk less. Little silences at first, that grew into days, then weeks. When I asked if everything was OK between us, the answer was always the same – you were tired, we would talk about it some other time. We never did. And in the silence, your anger grew.

When you did speak to me, shouting became your normal mode of communication and it continues to this day

We married. Had our beautiful children. Built our dream home in the countryside. And in the 13 years that followed, I lost you completely.

Months would pass without you even looking at me, never mind speaking. You began to treat me not just as a stranger, but also as an enemy. When you did speak to me, shouting became your normal mode of communication and it continues to this day. When I arrive home in the evening, I sit in my car and listen to you shout at our children.

In company, you talk across me, shutting me down. It is clear that I am of no interest to you. You isolate me by keeping day-to-day family happenings from me (how many times have family or friends seen a puzzled look on my face when an upcoming family event is mentioned?). This is how you exert your power, your control. But worst of all was when you started trying to enlist our children as soldiers in our private, pointless war. I’m not sure I can ever forgive this act.

Every night when the house quietens, you follow me to bed. In silence, you get under the bedclothes, always turn your back to me and switch off the light. No goodnight. Just an aching silence. In this moment, I believe I can physically touch loneliness. Every night for 13 years I’ve imagined you turning to me. You touch my arm and ask how I am. “Is everything OK?” In that moment I feel wanted. It never happens. I don’t reach out to you any more. Experience has taught me not to.

Three years ago, I convinced you to see a marriage counsellor with me. At one stage, I was asked what I wanted most from you. I said I simply wanted kindness. You just rolled your eyes. The counselling sessions ceased soon after. We never got to identify the source of your anger or of our difficulties.

So here I am, 47 years old. The reality is, I will never leave you because of our children, whom I love more than anything in this world. Maybe when they are older and have left home, we will part naturally.

Despite everything, sometimes I can still glimpse the beautiful woman I fell in love with all those years ago. I know that we are still both good people. We are just not good for each other.

At my relatively young age, I believe I deserve some hope of happiness. I have always taken a somewhat jaundiced view of people who have affairs, believing their flings were usually the product of a casual physical desire, with little care for the consequences. But on my journey through life so far, I have come to understand that many physical connections made outside of marriage are as a result of deep, basic human need – everyone wants to feel wanted. And sometimes the person closest to you just can’t give you that. Anonymous

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