Lying beside him at night, so close but still feeling miles apart, is the loneliest place in the world. I don’t just miss the sex, I miss the connection, the passion, the feeling of being seen. And worst of all, I’m starting to wonder if he even notices what’s slipping away.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something essential was missing. I remember chatting with Abigail, not too long ago. Over coffee, she laid it out bluntly: “Emma, you and Dan are like co-CEOs of a failing start-up. You’re both so exhausted you barely communicate, and your relationship feels more like a business arrangement than a romance.” I laughed at the absurdity of it, but her words stung because deep down, I knew they were true.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Dan, I do, more than I can put into words. I love the way he always knows when I need a gentle touch, the way his presence, even when quiet, is a steady comfort in a chaotic world. Yet, sometimes I wonder if what we feel now is enough.
I remember one date in particular; a night that still glows in my memory. Dan surprised me by taking me to a beautiful jazz bar tucked away in the city. The place was magical: soft fairy lights, the gentle murmur of a live jazz band, and a view that stretched out over the twinkling skyline. I had worn a dress that I loved, one that made me feel like I was the star of my own story and for a few hours, everything felt possible. We sat at a small table near the edge, our legs dangling over the side as we talked about everything and nothing. I recall how Dan looked at me with pure desire, his eyes tracing the outline of my figure down to my thighs where he stopped and bit his bottom lip. That night, I felt as though Margot Robbie herself could walk into the room and he wouldn’t have taken his eyes off me.
But now, some days, it’s almost as though he doesn’t give me a single glance.
Am I no longer desirable?
Is he staying for the kids or for an easy life?
Or will he actually leave me for a younger woman whose body and mind hasn’t been altered by motherhood.
I’ve tried to hold onto hope. I leave small notes for Dan; little scribbles on the mirror that say “I love you” or “You make my heart smile”, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’ll spark a conversation. Sometimes he smiles when he reads them; other times, he barely glances up from his work. I’ve even started suggesting that we cook together one night a week rather than eating with the kids. At first it was awkward, filled with silence and the inability to relax into one another. But it soon became a ritual that we looked forward to each week. Flirty touches and naughty glances would be shared between us and I would be reminded of what we once had.
The funny thing is, I still adore him. I still find reasons to smile at the little quirks that define him. The way he runs his hand through his unruly hair, the soft chuckle he lets out at the silliest things, even the way he absentmindedly leaves his keys in odd places. I remember all the times he’s made me feel safe, the countless moments when his embrace was enough to ward off the chill of a bad day. I remember how, during our early days, his touch made the world seem right, and his words filled me with hope. Now, those moments are rare, but they still exist, tucked away like precious treasures waiting to be rediscovered.
The sound of giggling drifts up the stairs, growing louder by the second, and I know exactly what’s happening. Dan’s been ambushed. Again.
I picture it: all three of them, limbs everywhere, taking turns launching themselves at him while he pretends to fight them off, probably making some dramatic speech about how “the ticklemonster never surrenders.” Sophie’s laugh will have turned into that silent, wheezy one she does when she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe, and Oscar is undoubtedly trying to act like he’s too cool for it while secretly loving every second. Meanwhile, Ruby, tiny but ruthless, is probably going straight for Dan’s weak spots, like the back of his knees or his ribs, because she plays to win.
I should get up. I should go downstairs, kiss Dan on the cheek, make a cup of tea, and start the day like a fully functional adult. Instead, I stay where I am, staring at the ceiling, listening to the chaos unfold below.
Dan is a great dad. That much has never been in question. Even on the days when he’s exhausted, when the to-do lists are endless, and the kids are being, well, kids, he’s there, fully present, wrestling them on the floor, reading the same bedtime story for the hundredth time, making ridiculous voices just to hear them laugh. He’s the kind of dad I always hoped my children would have.
And this family; this loud, messy, beautifully chaotic unit, is all I ever wanted. But is it enough?
That thought creeps in before I can stop it.
I hear Dan creeping into the bedroom. I’m too caught up in my thoughts to recognise his presence right now so I pretend to be asleep. I hear a whisper “I’m not going anywhere” and I smile to myself in my pretend slumber.
I hope he means it.
The chaos resumes downstairs.
I groan, finally throwing the covers off. If I don’t get down there soon, Dan’s going to recruit me into whatever game they’re playing, and I’m not sure I have the energy for a full-on tickle war before coffee.
Maybe I’ll just watch from the sidelines, at least until someone inevitably yells “Muuuuum!” and I get dragged into the madness.
Just another morning. Messy, loud, and complicated. But ours.
I know that the journey ahead won’t be easy. There will be days when the silence feels overwhelming, when the old habits threaten to reclaim our hearts, and when I wonder if all the effort is worth it. But as I reflect on everything we’ve been through; the laughter, the tears, the countless shared memories, I am convinced that our story isn’t over.
It’s just in a phase that requires more patience, more intentionality, and more vulnerability than we’ve allowed ourselves to be in recent years.
I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that I love Dan. I love him in a way that is quieter now, perhaps more subdued, but no less real. I love him because he is my partner, my friend, the person who has seen me at my best and worst. And even if I sometimes question whether I’m still in love with him in the way I once was, I can’t imagine my life without the warmth and stability he brings into it.
In the quiet moments before I exit the bedroom and head down to join the chaos, I whisper a silent promise to myself: that I will never stop loving him, even as we learn to navigate this new chapter of our lives. And with that promise, I close my eyes, hoping that tomorrow will bring a conversation, a laugh, a shared moment that reminds me, and him, that we’re still here, still in this together, and still capable of finding our way back to each other.
By the time I get downstairs, the house looks like a scene from a low-budget action film.
Cushions everywhere. A dinosaur inexplicably wedged under the sofa. Ruby wearing a superhero cape and no trousers.
Dan is in the middle of the living room floor, dramatically “injured,” while Oscar stands over him victorious.
“Mum!” Sophie shouts. “Daddy lost!”
