Content Note
This post contains honest reflections on emotional and physical intimacy within marriage. Please read gently and take care of your heart first. 💛
My husband visits his mom every Sunday. She lives alone now that all of her kids are grown and married. I think she enjoys that independence — doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants, after a lifetime of caring for others.
She was a mother of nine, the widowed wife of a military man. I imagine she didn’t get to make many choices just for herself; even her marriage was arranged. Still, she gives of herself without complaint. I love her. She’s one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met. And for some reason, she seems to love me too.
Every Sunday, my husband drives her to the grocery store in his massive Lexus — the “grocery-getter.” It’s a car that mostly sits unused except for errands with her or special events. Once the shopping is done and he’s fed, he usually naps for four to six hours, then heads off to visit one of his twin sisters and takes our nieces out for ice cream. It’s his weekly ritual — a generous offering of time and love to his family.
And yet, I find myself asking: If I’m his family too, why do I feel like a burden instead of loved?
He was born into his family, but he chose me. Shouldn’t I matter at least as much?
I’m not talking about material things. I’m talking about time and attention.
He sees it differently — that he spends time with his family once a week, and with me every day. But being in the same space isn’t the same as being present. We work together, we live together, but we rarely talk. When we’re home, his attention is elsewhere — on the phone with friends or family, watching the shows from his home country, scrolling through reels, or playing Candy Crush. Anything but being with me.
Sometimes, he invites me to sit with him for a drink at the kitchen table. We’ll talk a little, though mostly it’s me trying to start a conversation until he gets distracted by his screen. I think he likes that I share the space with him, even if I’m quiet. Occasionally we’ll watch a show I like and cuddle — I love those moments. They make me feel close, even without words. But lately, he told me to just finish the show without him.
Last night was one of those Sundays. After his visit with family, we sat together for a drink, and later we went up to bed. I thought maybe we’d get a little closeness again — just the quiet comfort of his arm around me, my head on his chest. I love that feeling. It makes me feel warm, loved, and safe.
Then he asked me to touch him in an intimate way — something he asks for most nights. Usually, I don’t mind. But lately, I’ve been feeling the imbalance between what I give and what I receive. I try to count my blessings, to see the small ways he loves me, but sometimes I just can’t.
Last night was one of those times.
I tried to enjoy the closeness, but he was on his phone, half there. I was touching him, but I felt alone. Then he wanted more. I’m in perimenopause, and without any tenderness toward me first, it can be painful. So I asked him — gently — to make me feel good first. I even suggested something to help. He handed me the bottle and told me to do it myself.
That broke something in me.
I asked again, almost pleading. He refused. So I gave in, just to avoid the pain. When I tried to hand the bottle back to him, he threw it across the room.
In that moment, I gave up and checked out.
This morning, I woke up feeling empty. Hollow.
And I don’t know if I have anything left to give.
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