---------- Forwarded message ---------
From: N Sekar <[email protected]>
Date: Sun, Mar 8, 2026, 9:54 AM
Subject: Fwd - What Love really is
To: Kerala Iyer <[email protected]>, Narayanaswamy Sekar <
[email protected]>, Suryanarayana Ambadipudi <[email protected]>,
Rangarajan T.N.C. <[email protected]>, Chittanandam V. R. <
[email protected]>, Mathangi K. Kumar <[email protected]>,
Mani APS <[email protected]>, Rama (Iyer 123 Group) <[email protected]>,
Srinivasan Sridharan <[email protected]>, Surendra Varma <
[email protected]>
8th March! The International Women's Day is celebrated today! Why not a
story to bring out what it means to be a woman? In a world that is learning
to mock at relationships, here is a woman who brings out the beauty in a
marriage. A woman is truly worthy of appreciation when she has learnt that
being emotionally the stronger one, her love can create, nurture and
sustain relationships. Enjoy the story..
Love In Rituals
I almost filed for divorce last Tuesday.
I was sitting in my car, staring at the paperwork, convinced that "the
spark" was gone. I felt numb. I drove to my parents’ house instead—seeking
a place to hide, or maybe just looking for an excuse to delay the
inevitable.
My parents, Margaret and Jimmy, have been married for 52 years. They are
the kind of American couple you see in old photos: he’s a retired foreman
who speaks in grunts; she’s a retired nurse who runs the house with quiet
efficiency.
While Dad was out back tinkering with his old truck, I sat at the kitchen
table and asked Mom the question that had been burning a hole in my chest.
"Mom," I whispered, watching her fold laundry. "After fifty years... are
you actually still in love with him? Or are you just... used to him?"
She stopped folding. She looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite
read—somewhere between pity and amusement. She didn't answer immediately.
She just patted my hand, smiled a tired, knowing smile, and went back to
the towels.
I left an hour later, frustrated, feeling like she didn't understand the
modern need for "connection" and "passion."
But when I got home, my phone buzzed. It was a long email from my mother.
She isn't tech-savvy, so seeing her type this much was a shock.
I sat in my driveway and read it. By the end, I was weeping.
Here is what she wrote:
"My darling girl,
You asked me today if I still love your father. I didn't answer you then
because love isn't a soundbite I can explain while folding sheets. But I
want you to know the truth.
It makes me smile that you ask this. Not because it’s a silly question, but
because the answer is complicated.
Do I love him like I did in 1972? No. If you are looking for butterflies in
the stomach, or the nervous energy of a first date, or the fireworks of a
Hollywood movie... then no, I don't have that.
But that isn’t love. That is adrenaline.
Love, after a lifetime together, isn't the explosion. It is the roots.
It is no longer the feeling that shakes you up; it is the certainty that
holds you down when the world tries to blow you away. It doesn’t make my
heart race anymore; it calms my soul. It doesn’t make my hands tremble; it
gives me the strength to get out of bed when my arthritis flares up.
In this house, there are no big surprises anymore. We don't do grand
romantic gestures. We have something better: We have rituals.
It’s the coffee pot starting at 6:00 AM exactly, because he knows I need it
hot. It’s the small, silly arguments we have about how to load the
dishwasher or who left the porch light on. It’s the way he instinctively
pulls the blanket over my shoulder when I cough in the middle of the night.
I know what he wants and when, I do it instinctively, without fretting over
it.
These seem like boring, trivial things to your generation. But they are
everything.
At this stage of life, I don't need a man to buy me diamonds or take me to
Paris. I need a man who listens when I say my back hurts. I need a man who
just hands me a tissue when I’m crying over the news, without asking why. I
need a man who doesn't leave the room when I’m depressed and don't even
like myself very much.
And your father? He does that. Without fanfare. Without asking for a 'thank
you.' He is simply there.
Loving someone for fifty years isn't like the romance novels. It’s more
like developing a secret language that no one else on earth speaks. It’s a
way of looking at each other across a crowded room and knowing exactly what
the other is thinking, because you have shared the same bills, the same
worries about the kids, the same grief when we lost friends, and the same
stubborn will to keep going.
So, to answer your question: Yes. I am still wildly in love with him.
But not with the boy I met at the diner in '72. I am in love with the life
we built. I am in love with the peace that comes from knowing that, no
matter how crazy this country gets or how hard the storm blows outside, he
is my shelter.
Don't look for the fireworks, honey. Look for the person who becomes your
home."
I turned off the car. I tore up the papers on the passenger seat. I walked
inside to my husband, who was sitting on the couch, looking just as tired
as I felt.
"Do you want some coffee?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I'd love that."
It starts with the butterflies. But it survives on the roots.
Yahoo Mail: Search, Organize, Conquer
<https://mail.onelink.me/107872968?pid=nativeplacement&c=US_Acquisition_YMktg_315_SearchOrgConquer_EmailSignature&af_sub1=Acquisition&af_sub2=US_YMktg&af_sub3=&af_sub4=100002039&af_sub5=C01_Email_Static_&af_ios_store_cpp=0c38e4b0-a27e-40f9-a211-f4e2de32ab91&af_android_url=https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.yahoo.mobile.client.android.mail&listing=search_organize_conquer>
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