Now, as I lay alone in the soft light of early morning, a familiar heaviness settles over me. I wonder: are we still in love, or have we simply become two dependable friends, comfortable in our routines yet dangerously close to fading into silence?
It’s funny how life works. One day, the passion is palpable. Every shared smile, every playful tease feels like a spark. The next, the sparks are replaced by a steady, almost mechanical rhythm.
I can hear Dan downstairs, making his early morning cup of coffee.
I can’t help but think about the woman I used to be when I first met him. The one who believed in fireworks, in kisses that stole your breath away, and in love that made every ordinary moment feel extraordinary.
Now, it seems, our conversations have shrunk to the essentials. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “And yours?” “Fine.”
We exchange words like notes passed across a classroom desk; functional, necessary, but utterly devoid of the warmth and complexity that once defined us.
There are moments, too, when I look at him and feel a pang of longing.
I remember when his eyes would light up with a secret understanding whenever we were together, how his smile had the power to erase all my worries.
I’m laying in bed, eyes shut, pretending I’m still asleep. It’s supposed to be my turn for a lie-in. My one glorious morning where I don’t have to immediately start fetching breakfasts, diffusing arguments, or answering deep, unhinged questions from Oscar like, “Mum, if a shark and a tiger had a fight in space, who would win?”
But of course, I’ve been awake for at least half an hour.
The kids have been stirring, whispering, thudding about in that way they think is so subtle. Pretty sure Sophie has already crawled into bed with Oscar, because I heard some rustling followed by an indignant “Sophie, your feet are so sweaty!” She does have weirdly sweaty feet. It’s one of those family mysteries I try not to think about too hard.
Dan is downstairs making coffee. I know this because I can hear the distinct clink-clink of the spoon against the mug, followed by the deep, relieved exhale of a man who is getting approximately seven minutes of peace before the chaos begins.
And yet, here I am. Awake. Not even enjoying the so-called luxury of my lie-in, but lying here, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the future of our family like some kind of over-caffeinated philosopher.
Are we doing this right?
Are we teaching them how love is supposed to be?
Are Dan and I even still us anymore, or are we just two co-managers of a small but emotionally unstable household?
I used to think parenting was mostly about making sure they ate vegetables and didn’t put Lego in their noses. Turns out, it’s a never-ending cycle of worrying about things I never even considered before.
Are we making enough memories?
Am I too strict? Too soft?
Will they grow up and remember all the times I lost my temper, or will they remember the way I always kissed their heads before bed, even if we’d had a terrible day?
I roll onto my side and sigh. The truth is, I have no idea. I don’t think any of us do. We’re all just winging it, surviving on coffee and leftover dinosaur nuggets, hoping we don’t mess them up too badly.
And then I hear it; Sophie’s giggle, followed by Oscar’s exaggerated “Ughhh, Sophie, stop breathing on me!” and Ruby telling them both to shhh because they’re going to “wake up Mum.”
And suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost. Because despite all the worries about whether Dan and I are just glorified housemates, this is exactly where I want to be.
Even if it means I never actually get a real lie-in ever again.
There was a time when I never had to wonder if he wanted me.
I knew it.
I could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he touched me, the way his hands would find me even in the smallest moments, like he couldn’t help himself.
But now, there’s just...distance.
I miss the way he used to pull me close without thinking, the way his fingers would trace my skin like he needed to memorise every inch of me.
I miss feeling desired, feeling like I was something he craved, not just someone he’s grown used to.
