I was sitting with my dad at the clinic, waiting on his bloodwork like usual. He had his old farm cap pulled down, and he was wearing that same blue fleece he’s had forever. The TV in the corner was muted, just the sound of machines humming. I figured we’d talk about the weather, or how the tomatoes were coming along. Nothing big.
But out of nowhere, Dad turned to me and said, “You know, I never really loved your mother.”
It just about knocked the wind out of me. My mom’s been gone almost seven years, and up until that second, I’d never even considered the possibility. They fought sometimes, but I always thought that’s just what married people did—especially after forty years.
He kept talking, matter-of-fact like he was commenting on the price of diesel. He said they were too young, that he’d felt trapped, that he never got a chance to figure out who he was supposed to be. The way he said it, it was almost like he was relieved to finally get it off his chest. I kept waiting for him to laugh and say he was kidding. He didn’t.
All these years, I had carried the image of my parents as a solid, unshakable foundation. They were my rock, the couple who’d weathered everything life threw at them. My dad had always been the strong, silent type, someone who didn’t wear his feelings on his sleeve. My mom, on the other hand, had been the heart of our family. She was the one who always knew how to make everything feel like it would be okay, even in the worst of times.
So when Dad dropped this bombshell, it felt like the ground beneath me had shifted. He never loved her? The woman who had given so much of herself, who had sacrificed everything for their family? It didn’t make sense.
I stared at him, my mouth dry. “What do you mean, Dad? Are you saying you didn’t love her at all?”
He looked away, like he couldn’t meet my eyes. “It wasn’t that simple. I cared for her, sure. We had kids, a life together. But love? It wasn’t like that for me. It wasn’t something that ever really clicked.”
I couldn’t process it. My mom had always seemed so sure of their bond, so certain that they’d made it through everything together. Was I just imagining it all these years? Was everything I’d believed about their relationship a lie?
I wanted to argue, to shout at him for saying something so hurtful so casually, but something in his face stopped me. He wasn’t angry or defensive. He wasn’t even upset. It was like he was simply telling me something he had kept buried for decades, and now that it was out, he felt lighter, almost free.
“How long have you felt this way?” I asked, barely able to keep my voice steady.
“A long time,” he said, the words coming out slowly, like he was thinking through them for the first time. “We were young, too young. And then, once we had kids, it felt like we were stuck. We did the best we could, and I stayed because that’s what you do. But love wasn’t something I had for her. Not the kind you think of when you talk about it, anyway.”
I wanted to say something more, to ask him how he could have kept that to himself for so long, to make me believe in something that wasn’t true. But all I could do was sit there, silent. The weight of his words was too much for me to carry in that moment.
We stayed in the clinic a while longer, the silence between us now suffocating. I tried to pretend like nothing had changed, that this wasn’t the kind of revelation that could shake a person to their core. But I couldn’t. The truth felt like an anchor pulling me under.
When we finally left, I drove us home without saying much. I knew I had to process what I’d just heard. I knew I had to figure out how to make sense of this new version of my dad, the version that wasn’t quite as heroic or as perfect as the one I had always believed in. But I also knew I needed time. Time to digest everything he had said, and time to figure out how this would change things between us.
Over the next few days, I thought a lot about my mom. I thought about the woman she had been—strong, loving, always there for us. She’d loved my dad with a depth that was hard for me to understand, and I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe she’d known all along. Maybe she’d known that he didn’t love her the way she loved him, but she stayed anyway, because of us. Because of me and my brother.
I talked to my brother about it, and he seemed just as shaken as I was. Neither of us could understand how Dad could have stayed in a marriage for all those years if he didn’t love her. We both agreed that it didn’t make sense. But then, something my brother said stuck with me.
“Maybe he stayed because he didn’t know how to leave,” he said. “Maybe he didn’t know how to be anything other than what he was—our dad, our provider, the guy who made sure everything kept running. Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was loyalty. Maybe it was that simple.”
That thought kept me up that night. Loyalty. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of love I had expected, but it was something. Something real, even if it wasn’t the fairy tale version I had imagined. Maybe Dad had stayed because he didn’t know how to walk away from the life they had built, even if it didn’t include the love my mom had wanted.
The next time I saw Dad, I approached him carefully. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I knew I needed to say something. I wanted to understand, to find some kind of closure in all this confusion.
“Dad,” I started, hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About Mom.”
He looked up from his chair, his eyes a little wary. “Yeah?”
“I don’t get it,” I said, my voice softer now. “I don’t understand how you could stay all those years if you didn’t love her. Why didn’t you leave? If you weren’t happy, why stay?”
He let out a long sigh, running his hand through his thinning hair. “I didn’t know how,” he said, his voice quiet. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying, by keeping the family together. It wasn’t about love, not like what you think of. But it was about commitment. It was about making sure you kids had a home, a stable life. I couldn’t walk away from that.”
There it was again—loyalty. Not love in the way I had always thought of it, but a different kind of love, a kind built on responsibility and duty.
And suddenly, I understood. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t romantic, but it was real in its own way. He hadn’t left because he couldn’t. Because he felt bound by a sense of duty to us. And maybe that was enough, in its own strange way.
Months passed, and things started to settle. I didn’t look at my dad the same way I had before, but in a way, I felt closer to him now. It was like a veil had been lifted, and while it wasn’t the perfect version of him I had once imagined, it was real. It was honest.
Then came the twist.
A few weeks ago, I found something in Mom’s old things—an old letter that she had written, a letter I had never seen before. In it, she talked about Dad. About how they had been young, how they had both made mistakes, but how she had loved him deeply, even when she didn’t feel loved in return. She wrote about how she stayed, not because of him, but because of us—because of me, because of my brother.
And in that letter, she wrote something that made everything click into place: “I knew he stayed because he didn’t know how to leave. And I knew that was love, even if it didn’t look like what I thought it would.”
Reading that, I felt the weight of it all. My mom had known. She had known everything, and she had stayed because of her own sense of duty. And in the end, it was the same thing that had kept Dad there. It wasn’t love in the fairytale sense, but it was something more complicated and perhaps more real than anything I had imagined.
Love isn’t always what we think it is. Sometimes it’s not about romance or passion—it’s about commitment, loyalty, and doing what’s right, even when it’s hard.
We all have our own versions of love, and they don’t always look the same. But they’re all valid. And sometimes, understanding the other person’s perspective can help you find peace with your own.
If this story resonates with you, share it with someone who might need to hear it. We all have a story to tell, and sometimes, understanding the truth behind those stories can bring us closer together.
