For years I was the perfect wife on the outside, but deep down I was living a lie every single night.
My husband believed he was the best lover in the world. He’d finish and roll over with pride, while I lay there staring at the ceiling, whispering fake moans that had become part of my routine.

At first, I told myself it was normal that maybe marriage just becomes dull after a while. But it wasn’t just boredom. Something inside me had died. I felt nothing. I wasn’t a fanatic of sex like before.

The worst part was pretending. Pretending to enjoy it, pretending to crave him, pretending I was happy. I used to cry silently in the bathroom after we were done, asking myself, “What’s wrong with me?”

Soon the distance between us grew.
He started sensing that something was off. He’d ask, “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”
I’d smile and say, “I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t. Every time he tried to touch me, my body would go stiff. I started avoiding intimacy, blaming stress, headaches, even my period.
That’s when I realized my marriage was slipping through my fingers not because of another woman, but because of my own emptiness. Read more.