I had a solid career, two well-behaved kids, a nice home in the suburbs, and a husband—Mark—who was dependable, respectful, and kind. We shared the bills, the bedtime routines, the grocery list. We rarely fought. Friends often told me how lucky I was.
And I believed them.
But somewhere beneath the rhythm of everyday life, something had quietly dulled.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. No big betrayal. No slammed doors or therapy ultimatums. Just a slow drift. A kind of numbness that set in so quietly I didn’t even notice.
Until one random Tuesday, in the checkout line at a bookstore, a stranger turned my world sideways with one simple question.
She was an older woman, probably in her late 60s. I was holding a novel I’d been meaning to read for months. She smiled and said, “That one’s beautiful. I read it after my husband passed away. It made me remember what it felt like to miss someone.”
I smiled politely, unsure how to respond.
Then she asked, “Do you ever miss your husband when he’s not around?”
I blinked.
Miss him?
The question hit me like cold water. Not because it was invasive—but because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked myself something that honest.
We texted about errands. Shared calendars. Took turns on school pickups. But did I miss him? Did I ever long for him, the way I used to?
That night, I sat in bed beside Mark, the soft blue light of his phone screen reflecting on his face. He was scrolling. I was pretending to read.
And the question rang in my head again.
Do I miss him?
The truth was… no.
And that terrified me.
I started paying more attention in the days that followed. To how we spoke—mostly about logistics. To how we touched—barely. To how we laughed—only when prompted by something on TV. I noticed how often we defaulted to parallel play: sharing space without sharing ourselves.
One evening after the kids went to bed, I asked Mark if we could talk.
I told him about the woman in the bookstore. About her question. About my answer.
To his credit, he didn’t get defensive. He looked at me, really looked, for the first time in what felt like months.
“I’ve been feeling it too,” he admitted. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”
We sat on the couch for hours, peeling back layers we hadn’t touched in years. We talked about how routine had replaced romance. How we stopped asking each other deep questions. How we became excellent partners in parenting, but not in passion.
And we didn’t blame each other. We just noticed—together.
That conversation didn’t fix everything overnight. But it was a beginning.
We made small changes. Friday night walks, no phones. Coffee together in the mornings—even if it meant waking up 15 minutes earlier. Random texts during the day that weren’t about picking up milk.
And slowly, I started to miss him again. Not because he was absent, but because he was present—in new ways.
I’m still grateful to that stranger. She had no idea what she set in motion. Sometimes, the most powerful questions come from someone who sees you for just a moment—without history, without assumptions—and holds up a mirror you didn’t know you needed.
Final Thought:
Love doesn’t always disappear in a blaze. Sometimes it fades in silence—until one honest question invites you to look closer. And when you do, you might just find it again… waiting for you to notice.
