I once asked my mother if, after six decades of marriage, she still felt in love with my father. She gave me a gentle smile instead of words, as if to say, “How can I explain this so you’ll truly understand?” Hours later, her answer arrived in a message on my phone:
“You wonder if I still love him. I laugh softly — not because your question is foolish, but because love is hard to describe after so many years. Yes, I love him, though not in the way it began. It’s not fire in the veins anymore, not a storm of emotions. It’s roots that grow deep.
Love at this stage is not a thrill but a foundation. It no longer races through my chest, but it steadies me. It no longer makes me blush or tremble, but it gives me courage to rise each day.
We don’t have surprises now, but we share rituals: our morning coffee, our small disagreements, the way we pull the blanket over one another at night. These tiny habits may look ordinary, yet they are the essence of everything.
I no longer wait for roses or poetry. I wait for him to notice when I ache, to comfort me when I fall apart, to remain by my side even when I’m lost in myself. And he does — quietly, without display, simply by being constant.
To love after a lifetime is not romance from a novel. It is a language only we know, a silent glance that carries years of pain, fatigue, and the will to go on.
So yes, I still love him. But differently. I love the world we built, the peace he brings, and the shelter he is to me, even in the wildest storm.”
That, to me, is LOVE’S TRUE LESSON. 
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