“What if I love my kids more than my husband?” I sent this text to a close friend, unsure of whether or not I wanted her to answer. A few seconds later, the little dots at the bottom of our thread started moving.

“I understand how you feel,” she typed back. 

There was nothing more to say.

I had been struggling to name the fundamental problem in my marriage. And this text was the first time I had questioned if I feel more love for my kids than for my husband. Maybe the way I loved our kids and inadvertently neglected my husband was the reason our relationship felt like it was on the verge of falling apart.

When did this happen? I wondered. Or maybe the better question was: why did this happen?

The more I considered the possibility that I had indeed fallen out of love with the man I married, the more depressed and discouraged I felt about our marriage. A vicious cycle. I wondered if our relationship was something I could actually change and repair. 

Maybe the more daunting question was: had he also lost his love for me?

***

Before the pandemic, we experienced a miscarriage, lost our dog, and walked through a season of illness with our second son that we felt helpless to manage. We already felt the weight of stress, then the pandemic made it worse. Something about being stuck in our house together—him working remotely and me homeschooling our sons—pushed our marriage to its outermost limits. 

Our relationship began vacillating between loving and familiar to cold and estranged. But at the time, neither of us could name the reason why—and just like our son’s illness, we felt helpless to find a remedy.

“I think we need help,” I said after several days of avoiding each other. “I don’t think we can figure this out on our own.”

“I disagree,” he answered without pause. “I don’t think a therapist is going to tell us anything we don’t already know. They would tell us to make more time for each other and go on a date more than twice a year. And we can barely get anybody to watch the kids so we can’t do that—how could we make time for therapy?”

And so we continued as we were.

At our worst, our daily interactions were woven together with sarcasm and comparison. We compared who did what or who was more tired, leaving us both feeling irritated and disconnected. We bickered about dinner, the kids, the dishes, the clutter, our sex life (or lack thereof), and most of all, the mile-long list of home projects needing to be done.

I remember looking at him one day, and wondered where the man I married had gone. Why was it that when I looked at him, I could only see the things I wanted to change? Why did just the sound of his voice trigger my neck and shoulders to tense up?

The only time I remember feeling love for him in that season was when I saw him with our boys. Nearly every day after dinner, our 5-year-old begged him to play “Tickle Monster” and our oldest requested help with elaborate Lego creations. I could tell he would rather say “no” and relax, but without fail, he appealed to them. “Okay guys, let’s go to the playroom.” He mustered up what little he had left to show them the love and attention they craved. 

Seeing him with our kids gave me hope for our future, but it also saddened me. I didn’t understand how he could demonstrate such patience and love toward them, but not me.

I remember thinking: If he was just a little nicer, more considerate, and less stressed out all the time, our relationship would be so much better.  Even if he treated me like he would a stranger off the street, our marriage would improve!

At least that’s what I believed.

***

“He did it to me!” Our youngest son shrieked. 

“That’s because he did it first!” retorted our oldest. 

I glared at my husband, not in a blaming sort-of-way, but in a do we really have to resolve a fight this early? sort-of-way. 

Our boys were fighting over a Lego brick or train or something—it doesn’t really matter what.

“Why do they get so defensive and angry so fast?” I said out loud in my husband’s direction, realizing mid-way through my question that we have modeled the exact same behavior.

***

It isn’t hard to understand why our kids are easier for me to love.

They are cute and funny and most of the time, they reciprocate my feelings without hesitation. They hug me each morning and tell me they love me throughout the day. They tell me that they are sorry if I am hurt or sad, and they show a genuine interest in what I do throughout the day. They don’t just need me; they want to be with me. Our relationship feels easy. I like to feel needed, loved, and appreciated, and our boys often fulfill these needs more regularly than my husband does. 

In contrast, my husband and I might go a whole day without hugging or saying, “I love you.” He doesn’t seem to need me, nor does he consistently show a desire to be with me (until he wants more than just a hug). We often misunderstand each other and truly question each other’s intentions. 

***

When I was 14 weeks pregnant with our third son, my husband and I had an intense argument, and while I have no idea how it began, I remember the aftermath. 

I slumped forward, staring at the bathroom floor, watching helplessly as my tears made little puddles in between my slippers. I felt utterly alone and scared for our future because I couldn’t imagine bringing another baby into a marriage that already felt so strained. 

How can we welcome another child if we can’t even be nice to each other?

Are we turning into my parents? Building a marriage that barely limps along and painting a horrid picture of what committed love looks like?

I felt like a skittish rabbit, ready to sprint away to safety. Though I was “safe” on all accounts, I still felt insecure and didn’t trust sharing my feelings with my husband.

But I didn’t have time to wallow and it’s hard to run when you’re pregnant. 

***

“I hope you didn’t get me anything.” he said with a chuckle. 

“No,” I said laughing. “I had hoped to give you a baby, but apparently, he’s very cozy in here. I assume you didn’t get me anything either?”

He shook his head no. 

It was the afternoon of our 12-year wedding anniversary, and I was 41 weeks pregnant. The only thing I had really hoped for on this particular day was for labor to begin. 

Still, I went to sleep disappointed—not just because my body gave me no sign of labor, but because he was just as content as I was not to celebrate our anniversary. As if we had both resigned to the fact that our marriage was going to take a backseat to everything else going on in our lives. 

***

After our third son was born, I watched my husband step in where he was needed—helping the boys with breakfast in the morning, cleaning up after meals, and initiating the bedtime routine. In the beginning, I rarely thanked him. I expected him to pick up the slack in these ways. But he did more than I expected. Watching him care for us in this way gave me a newfound appreciation for him and I began to recognize one very important difference in how I relate to him versus our boys.

I go out of my way to show our kids that I love them. I smile at them and offer hugs first thing in the morning, even though I am desperate for a cup of coffee. I plan playdates and trips to their favorite parks and trails. I make special treats that I know they will enjoy. I prioritize, not just their needs, but their wishes, even at the expense of my own self-care. But rarely do I go out of my way to show my husband how much I love him. Rarely do I put him first—or even second—and yet I expect him to do that for me.

***

I’m not sure our marriage will ever feel easy. I’m not sure if I will fall in love with him again or if that should even be my goal, but I know this to be true: I am no more deserving of love, compassion, and forgiveness than he is. I also know that our marriage is only as good as we allow it to be and we both play a part. I can keep digging in my heels and keeping track of all of the ways he has let me down, or I can acknowledge his strengths and recognize the ways that he is trying to show me love. 

Maybe instead of giving everything I’ve got to our kids, I could recognize that any love he has for me needs a warm place to grow again, and a heart willing to receive it. 

And maybe he will be more willing to love me the way I need him to, if I love him the way he needs first.

This essay was offered anonymously.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.