The worth I’ve paid for marrying Mr OK fairly than Mr Right…

Feeling every inch the beautiful bride in my £1,000, floor-length, ivory silk gown, I married my husband in a pretty village church in Hampshire in front of 130 guests.

The ceremony was followed by a reception in a country hotel nearby, with champagne and a four-course meal, before we all partied late into the night.

And yet, despite the happiness of that day, when I walked down the aisle towards Michael, he didn’t set my heart alight – and I knew he never would. There were no butterflies of excitement. Rather than marrying Mr Right, I was settling for Mr OK.

While the narrative is that brides are always head over heels on their wedding day, there are more women in my position than you might think. Research suggests about 30 per cent of women ‘settle’ for their partner, rather than marrying their ‘true love’, thinking that security and friendship are more important than the passion of a fairytale romance. But is it a formula for a happy life?

It will be 25 years this month since that beautiful August day. Reaching your silver wedding anniversary is considered the marker of a successful marriage, and I will be forever grateful to Michael for giving me two of my three children.

Yet there is no doubt that my decision to settle has come at a price. For starters, we’ve not had sex for ten years and while, until recently, family life was enough, now the children are leaving home the chasm between us is becoming ever more obvious.

What’s perhaps surprising is that Michael wasn’t my first husband.

Having experienced one divorce, people might assume I wouldn’t want to compromise second time around on someone who wasn’t utterly perfect for me. So what led to my decision?

My sister and I grew up in Essex in a loving, stable home. Our parents were from a generation who believed marriage vows were for keeps, and I wanted the same for myself one day.

My first husband Simon and I were childhood sweethearts, having dated since we were in sixth-form. He was handsome, exciting and my stomach leapt whenever I saw him.

We had a great sex life and when we married aged 26 in a low-key ceremony in a register office, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind.

Our relationship was for ever – or so I thought until 18 months later, when I was cradling our newborn daughter and received a call from a woman saying she’d been having an affair with Simon for a year.

Though he’d always been naturally flirtatious, I’d never imagined he was capable of something like this. When I tackled him about it, he admitted everything and asked for my forgiveness. Deeply remorseful, he told me he loved me very much.

It destroyed me, but I couldn’t cope with the thought of being a single mum, so I stayed with him… until the same woman called almost a year later, claiming the affair was ongoing.

Devastated, I ended our marriage. Simon moved out, agreeing there was no hope for us this time. From that point, he didn’t provide any support for our daughter. I think that part of the problem was he’d grown up in a broken home himself.

Despite the pain I felt at Simon’s betrayal, it didn’t destroy my belief in love, and I hoped that one day I would marry again. As things turned out, it was only four years later.

Michael and I met on a night out when I was 30. He was two years older than me; I’m now 57 and he’s 59.

I was drawn to the qualities that made him the complete opposite to my ex: dependable, financially secure with a career in technology, and from a stable family.

Though he wasn’t handsome, and was very overweight when we met, he made me laugh until my ribs hurt and we shared the same values. I felt safe with him.

On an early date he spoke about his desire to settle down and have children and – the real clincher – that he would take care of my daughter and me forever. Yet, though I enjoyed spending time with him, the lack of attraction on my part meant it wasn’t until we’d been together for eight months that our relationship became physical.

By then it was a case of, why not? I never doubted that Michael loved me. In fact just a month after we started dating he told me so. I smiled and hugged him but didn’t say it back.

We were lying in bed one morning, almost a year into our relationship, when he asked me to marry him. I didn’t know how to answer.

Although I liked him very much and cared for him – we could talk about anything and everything – I hadn’t fallen in love with him and still didn’t fancy him.

But if I said no, I might let a good man pass me by, for the superficial reason of physical attraction, which people say becomes less important over time anyway. At the forefront of my mind was my young daughter, by then starting primary school, and how I wanted her to have the secure upbringing Michael promised.

In the end, I said: ‘Yes, but not yet.’ I think he always had an inkling that I wasn’t in love with him. But we had talked about how we both wanted children and he knew that I wanted that to happen within marriage.

Shortly afterwards, he told me he didn’t want to get married years down the line as he was eager our future children were close in age to my daughter, so we started planning the wedding in earnest.

Famously, brides love planning every detail, but in our case Michael was the one choosing everything, from the table decor to the menus. I was just going through the motions, carried along by his enthusiasm.

In the run up to the wedding, I confided my doubts in my sister. Her response was: ‘If you don’t want to do it, then don’t.’

But all I could think was that if I called it off, I’d lose a thoroughly decent man with no way of knowing if someone better would come along. Besides, maybe romantic love would develop over time.

The night before I asked myself: ‘What am I doing? I’m about to say “I do” to a man with whom I have no spark.’ That made me terribly sad. Then again, I’d had sparks in abundance with my first husband and look where that ended.

Despite everything, I felt very happy on our wedding day, in my beautiful dress, surrounded by our loved ones.

Michael lost a lot of weight in the run up, so I found him more physically attractive, and I knew he’d keep his promises to my daughter and me, which meant more than any hearts and flowers romance.

In those early days as newlyweds, Michael was very affectionate, and I was determined to be a good wife.

We had two children together, now both in their early 20s, and everything we’ve done as a family unit has been wonderful; holidays, going to sports days and school plays, and simple things like playing in the garden at home.

We’d have sex once a week. With young children and busy lives, an infrequent love life is nothing unusual. But when the youngest was about four and the children had a weekend at my mother-in-law’s for the first time – an occasion other couples would have seized as an opportunity to indulge in a night out – we didn’t do anything together all weekend.

For the first time since we’d married, I was conscious of the chasm between us. I realised everything that was lovely about our lives was centred around the children.

Neither of us acknowledged there was anything amiss. I simply told myself things could be much worse. Ultimately, Michael was a great dad and a good man who always provided for us, successfully creating the calm family environment I had hoped for when I married him.

Over the years we’ve never argued, and when friends would complain about their husbands, I’d remind myself that few women could claim to have enjoyed the contentment that existed within our lovely five-bedroom home.

But now that all three kids are grown up and one of them has left home, with the other two planning to move out in the near future, I’m aware that Michael and I live very separate lives.

When I’m not at work, I go to dance and writing classes and love to socialise, while Michael is happy to be at home. He’d do anything for me, and me for him, but our relationship is more like a friendship. And I can’t pretend this hasn’t bothered me.

The first time I admitted this to him was about a decade ago when, ironically, I was upset one August that we didn’t do anything to mark our wedding anniversary.

‘Even though this isn’t some big love affair, it would be nice if we could make the most of it and celebrate our marriage!’ I told him.

I was dropping a bombshell, yet he just pretended not to hear me, only saying later: ‘Feel free to arrange something, I’ll pay for it.’ This only enraged me more.

The pandemic really brought things into sharp focus. Feeling trapped with a man I had nothing in common with except our children, I told him I wanted out of the marriage and to be with someone who set my heart on fire.

He was devastated, telling me I was his world and insisting he couldn’t be without me.

I felt dreadful, blaming my outburst on lockdown sending me round the twist and asking him to forget I’d said anything.

Astonishingly, he walked away and neither of us have ever mentioned my comments again, which I suppose sums up the lack of connection between us. I have no idea how, knowing I feel this way, he manages to carry on as normal.

Though we sleep in the same bed, we haven’t had sex in a decade. It slowly fizzled out when the children were little and we’ve never talked about it or made an effort to be more intimate. He seems as disinterested in it as I am, which is a relief.

But that doesn’t mean I’m happy to be in a relationship that’s devoid of romance.

Sitting in a restaurant with Michael last week, I couldn’t take my eyes off a couple our age touching fingers across their table. Any such displays of affection always draw my wistful gaze.

And when I look at other couples I know, including my sister and her husband, I feel a pang knowing they have that magic something that’s been lacking all my married life.

A man at my dance class recently admitted that if I wasn’t married he’d love to pursue something with me. Having been cheated on myself, I would never contemplate an affair, but I can’t deny that it made me think about what I could have with someone else.

That’s why I’ve decided that when all my children have left home, I’ll leave. No one knows; not Michael, not our children, not even my sister.

I suspect my daughter won’t be surprised. Though we have never discussed it, we’re extremely close, and I’m sure she knows things aren’t great.

But the younger two will be devastated, which scares me. And though it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Michael, I think he’ll still be terribly upset and blindsided that after all these years I’ve finally summoned the courage to go.

So now, during moments of sadness, rather than dwelling on my decision to settle all those years ago, I shift my focus to the future, to a time when I may have the opportunity to be with someone who sets my heart aflutter.

I want to feel beyond all doubt that I’m somebody’s everything, and that they are mine. I don’t want riches, or financial security, but pure love and attraction.

But despite everything, if I could go back to the moment Michael asked me to marry him, I wouldn’t do anything differently, because I wouldn’t be without my children.

As a family unit, all five of us have had a wonderful time – and that’s how we’ll be spending our forthcoming silver wedding anniversary celebration. An intimate, romantic dinner for two just isn’t an option for us.

Names have been changed. As told to Sadie Nicholas.