When my daughter was little and she peppered us with questions about the world, we returned the favour by asking her playful questions. “Who do you love more, Mummy or Daddy?” we’d teasingly ask. “I love you both equally,” my fair-minded child would reply. One day we flipped the question and asked jokingly if she could tell, between my husband and I, who loves whom more.
“Daddy loves Mummy more,” she said. “That’s not true,” I blustered. “I love Daddy more.” Both my daughter and husband laughed so hard at my delusion. After my indignation wore off, I pondered her words, and realised that out of the mouths of babes comes the truth.
My husband’s love language is acts of service. In the mornings when we come downstairs, he prepares breakfast for us: coffee for me, tea for my daughter; our boiled eggs peeled and cut open, and two bricks of Weetbix in our bowls so that all we have to do is pour milk.
He models the love he learnt from his mother, a stay-at-home parent, who is devoted to her four children, smothering them in affection and acts of service. She always put her needs last and elevated the needs of her family. During the war, when the family was under siege in Sarajevo, she was ill and near death, as she always gave herself the most meagre portion of food – just enough to keep her alive.
My daughter calls me “touch-starved”, as I constantly seek physical affection to anchor me
My love language is acts of affection. Having spent so many years separated from my mother because of her bipolar disorder, my daughter calls me “touch-starved”, as I constantly seek physical affection to anchor me. My mother did the best she could with what she had, but bipolar is a cruel mistress that kept her occupied and self-involved. During the manic highs, she was consumed with grandiose ambition and never-ending energy. During the lows of recovery, as the medication pumped through her veins, her mood levelled out and she was felled by low energy and lethargy.
When we first married, my husband used to dry my hair. If I went to leave the house not dressed appropriately, he would chastise me and wrap me in a jacket. His love filled the hole that I had from an absent-minded parent. As the years passed and the hole filled, he directed his attention towards our daughter when she came along, and we entered a new stage of our relationship with her at the centre of our devotion.
For years, our marriage was unbalanced. I was the benefactor of his acts of service
For years, our marriage was unbalanced. I was the benefactor of his acts of service. I have an impulse for self-preservation, developed from having to care for myself at a young age. I only learnt to practise selflessness with my daughter. Once, when we fought, and my husband accused me of using him, I was bewildered. After all, he was the one who initiated the caring gestures. I didn’t demand them.
Most couples might struggle with so much truth-telling, but brutal honesty is the hallmark of our relationship and one that has served us well in our 26 years of marriage. After this conversation, I realised I was drawn to my husband because of his love language. He gave me the devotion that my mother couldn’t give because of her battle with mental illness. I also realised I took advantage of his acts of service and didn’t practise reciprocity. For years, I didn’t put petrol in my car or know how to use my dishwasher or washing machine, as he did all the household chores.
Our relationship evened out and shifted. We became equally devoted to each other
I began reflecting on my behaviour and practised acts of service towards him, paying attention to small acts of kindness that made him feel seen and appreciated. Our relationship evened out and shifted as we recalibrated. We became equally devoted to each other, in tune with our acts of love and the way we proved our love to each other. Now, there is greater tranquillity in our relationship.
I still hate putting petrol in my car, but now I do it with appreciation and gratitude for all the years I didn’t have to. And if sometimes strangers stop me as I drive and point out that my petrol tank is left open — well, that is a worthwhile price to pay for harmony in my relationship.
is an award-winning author of the memoir , about being raised by a mother with bipolar. It was shortlisted for the 2020 National Biography prize and is now available as an audiobook narrated by the author.
