For nearly two decades, I’ve adored the same man. His name is Alex, and he has dark hair and warm brown eyes. I’ve only seen him clean-shaven once, and honestly, I prefer him with a beard. He’s incredibly handsome in my eyes.
Alex is the calm to my storm, especially when my worries escalate. While I chat nonstop at social gatherings, he tends to be more reserved. He’s an early riser who wakes up whistling, while I need at least thirty minutes of quiet before engaging with anyone in the morning, and I rely on a full eight hours of sleep to feel my best. In many ways, he complements me perfectly.
Fifteen years ago, we felt ready to tie the knot. We eagerly started a family right after our wedding, excited to have children close in age. Now, with three kids under our roof, we’ve come to a mutual understanding—we would likely find more happiness apart.
I still love him, but that love has transformed. It’s not robust enough to support our marriage any longer, but the feelings remain. We’ve shared so much—he was by my side during the births of our children, we built a life together, and we’ve cared for each other through sickness and loss. The affection we have for one another has allowed us to forgive past mistakes, and now we’re using that remaining love to part ways.
Despite our efforts to strengthen our bond, we found ourselves drifting further apart. He moved out two months ago, and after a few weeks of solitude, I took a much-needed trip with my best friend. We indulged in massages, explored shops, and struggled to break away from deep conversations each time we returned to the car.
One day, while browsing a bookstore, I received an unexpected photo from Alex. He had taken the initiative to remodel our kitchen, something I’d dreamed of for years but we never accomplished together. He decided to surprise me while I was away, and my heart swelled with joy at his thoughtfulness. I found a quiet corner in the store, sat down, and wept—not out of sadness, but out of gratitude for the love that still exists between us during this transition, perhaps even more than before.
I love Alex, and a part of me always will, but our marriage is over. Most days, I feel resolute about our decision, knowing it’s right for both of us. Yet there are moments when it hits hard, like when the friendly cashier at the grocery store notices my smaller purchases or when a jeweler suggests I should treat myself to something new.
Through it all, I remind myself of what an incredible father Alex is. Our separation doesn’t mean the end of our family; we will always be a family. The sting of change fades, and I’m learning to accept that it’s okay not to buy the steak, and I don’t feel emotional every time I pass by diamonds anymore.
My love for him remains, grounded in his goodness as a person. I appreciate that I can still share my thoughts with him after a long day of parenting alone, knowing he listens and cares. Even though our family dynamic may look different now, the love isn’t gone. It may not have been enough to maintain our marriage, but it is certainly enough to foster a happy family.
If you’re navigating similar feelings, you might find comfort in reading more about the transitions in family dynamics on this blog. For those considering alternative paths to parenthood, exploring resources like Cryobaby’s at-home insemination kit can be enlightening. Additionally, if you have questions about fertility insurance, this site is an excellent resource.
In summary, I love my partner deeply, but our marriage has reached its conclusion. We are now focused on ensuring our family remains whole, even as we embrace this new chapter apart.