Married, Successful, but Loveless: Should I Stay for the Kids?

I’m sitting in our cozy living room in our Amsterdam apartment, the soft glow of a floor lamp casting shadows on the exposed brick walls. My wife, Sophie, and I have been married for 12 years, and our twin boys, Liam and Noah, just turned 10. Sophie’s eight years younger than me, but she’s always been the grounded one, the planner who keeps our family ticking. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner party in London, clicked over shared values—stability, family, a quiet life—and decided to build something together. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance, more like a mutual agreement to be partners in life.

Back then, we both had solid jobs—me in finance, her in marketing. But after the twins were born, Sophie chose to stay home, not trusting daycare to give our boys the care she could. She started selling handmade jewelry online, a side hustle that covers small expenses, she says. I don’t ask for details; I’ve always been the breadwinner, and I’m fine with it. My job at a bank in the city keeps us comfortable, but the pressure to provide never lets up. I work late, skip vacations, and pour everything into ensuring Sophie and the boys want for nothing.

Sometimes, I wonder if we’ve lost something along the way. Our marriage isn’t passionate—never was, really. We’re practical, focused on raising the boys and keeping the household running. I tell myself that’s enough. A family doesn’t need grand gestures to be stable, right? But as I sip my coffee, staring at the family photo on the mantle, a nagging feeling creeps in. Is stability all we’re chasing?

One rainy evening in our Brussels rental—we moved here for my job six months ago—I was working on Sophie’s laptop, fixing a glitch. That’s when I saw it: a chat window she’d left open. Messages to an old colleague, Mark, from her marketing days. The words hit me like a punch—sweet, flirty lines she’d never used with me. “You always know how to make me smile,” she wrote. My heart sank. This wasn’t the Sophie I knew, the one who schedules playdates and folds laundry with military precision.

I confronted her that night in our kitchen, the rain pattering against the windows. She looked mortified, her face pale under the harsh fluorescent light. She swore it was nothing serious—just boredom, she said. Stuck at home all day, she’d reconnected with Mark online, and the chats got out of hand. “It’s just words,” she insisted, tears welling up. “I’d never do anything to hurt you or the boys.” I wanted to believe her, but the betrayal stung. I’ve spent years grinding to give her a good life, and she’s filling her days with someone else?

Anger burned in me, but the thought of Liam and Noah stopped me from exploding. They’re too young to deal with a broken home. So, I forgave her—or tried to. Sophie promised to cut contact with Mark, and we agreed to move on. But something shifted. Our already quiet marriage grew colder. Sophie seemed distant, avoiding intimacy, and I stopped trying to bridge the gap. We were roommates now, playing happy family for the boys’ sake.

Then came the twist. Last week, I came home early to our Brussels apartment, and Sophie was out running errands. Her laptop was open again, and I couldn’t resist. This time, it was a chat with her sister, Claire. Claire asked if Sophie still loved me, suggesting divorce if the spark was gone. Sophie’s reply gutted me: “I know, but starting over scares me. The boys need their dad. I’ll stick it out—he’s like a bank account, keeping us secure.” I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

The days after reading Sophie’s message were a blur. I didn’t confront her—not yet. I needed time to process the fact that my wife saw me as a walking ATM. We kept up appearances, taking the boys to a park in Paris, where we’d moved for a short-term work project. Watching Liam and Noah chase pigeons near the Eiffel Tower, I wondered how long we could fake this. Sophie laughed with them, but her smiles felt hollow when they turned to me.

I started noticing things I’d ignored. Sophie’s new hobbies—painting classes, book clubs—kept her out of the house more. She was building a life that didn’t include me. One night, over dinner at a cozy Parisian bistro, I tried talking to her about us. “Are you happy?” I asked, my voice low. She hesitated, twirling her pasta, then said, “The boys are happy. That’s what matters.” Her answer was a dodge, but it confirmed what I feared: our marriage was a shell.

I began exploring my options. A colleague recommended a counselor in Paris, and I booked a solo session. The therapist, a kind woman with a knack for cutting through nonsense, asked what I wanted—not for the boys, but for me. I didn’t have an answer. For years, I’d defined myself as the provider, the one who keeps the ship afloat. But now, I’m questioning if that’s enough. Maybe Sophie and I could try couples therapy, or maybe it’s time to admit we’re done.

The boys are my anchor. I can’t imagine not tucking them in every night or cheering at their soccer games. But I also can’t ignore the growing distance between Sophie and me. We’re at a crossroads, and for the first time, I’m considering a path I never thought I’d take: divorce.

It’s been a week since that park day, and I’m back in our Paris apartment, sitting at the dining table with a glass of wine. Sophie’s upstairs, reading to the boys. The hum of her voice through the walls is comforting, but it also reminds me of what’s at stake. I haven’t told her I know about her chat with Claire. Part of me wants to keep pretending, to preserve this fragile balance for Liam and Noah. But another part screams that I deserve more than being a paycheck.

I’ve been researching divorce laws in France, talking to a lawyer friend in London. It’s daunting—splitting assets, co-parenting, explaining it to the boys. Yet, the idea of staying in a loveless marriage feels just as heavy. I keep asking myself: Is a family still a family if it’s built on pretense? I want the boys to grow up seeing love, not obligation.

So, here I am, staring at my reflection in the wine glass, wondering what’s next. Maybe I’ll suggest therapy to Sophie, or maybe I’ll lay it all bare and see if she’s willing to fight for us. Either way, I’d love to hear from others who’ve faced this. How do you rebuild trust? When do you know it’s time to walk away? For now, I’m taking it one day at a time, hoping clarity comes.