The other day, I asked my mother if, after nearly fifty-seven years of marriage, she was still in love with my father.
She didn’t answer right away.
A look filled with memories, unsaid truths, and a softness only time can teach.
Then she smiled. Not a big smile. Just a gentle one, as if it carried an entire lifetime within it.
That evening, I found a message from her on my phone.
Reading it felt like being wrapped in a hug—one that warms you deeply and breaks you just a little at the same time.
“Every now and then, you ask me if I still love him,” she wrote.
“And I smile. Not because your question is foolish, but because love, after so many years, cannot be explained with simple words.
Yes, I love him.
But not the way I once did.
The racing heartbeats are gone.
The butterflies, the sleepless nights waiting for a kiss—those belong to another season of life.
What remains now are roots.
Deep. Steady. Unshakable.
It is no longer a fire that burns wildly.
It is a quiet warmth that stays.
It doesn’t make your hands tremble; it steadies your life.
It doesn’t make you lose yourself; it helps you find yourself again when everything else falls apart.
There are no grand surprises anymore.
Only small rituals that feel like home.
Morning coffee at the same hour.
The familiar arguments about folded towels.
The silent instinct to care for each other without needing words.
And those small things,” she wrote, “that is love.
At my age, I don’t wait for grand gestures.
I wait for him to listen when pain bends me.
For his arms when my strength gives out.
For his presence when I no longer recognize myself.
And he is there.
Always.
Quiet, but constant.
Loving someone for a lifetime is not a fairy tale.
It is a secret language made of glances—
glances filled with stories only two people who have survived everything together can understand.
The battles.
The tears.
The choosing each other again and again.
Yes, I am still in love.
Not with the young man he once was,
but with the man he became beside me.
With the silent symphony we composed together.
And with the promise that, every day—even without words—we continue to play.”
This is love unspoken.
A love transformed, not diminished.
A love that does not fade.
This Christmas I asked my hubby for a love letter for my main Christmas present. He wasn't really happy about it but knew that's what I really truly wanted. I wrote him a love letter too using this poem as the main part of my letter as it speaks exactly what my heart wanted to say only better than I could express. I added a personal note explaining why I chose it.
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