Twice Married, But Never Satisfied: The Queen’s Illusion

“You never loved me the way I deserved, David!” My voice echoed off the kitchen tiles, the words hanging in the air like a threat neither of us could take back. David sat at the table, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug so tightly I thought it might crack. He didn’t look up. He never did, not when things got real.

I remember, even now, the strange detachment I felt as I threw my wedding ring onto the countertop. It skittered and spun, finally coming to rest by the sugar bowl. We’d been married six years. Six years of waiting for the adoration I’d been promised by every Disney movie, every romance novel, every little-girl daydream: to be loved like a queen.

But let me go back. My name is Emily Parker. I grew up in a small Wisconsin town—one of those places where people know your business before you do. My parents were high school sweethearts, and my mom always said, “A good marriage is built on patience and compromise, Em.” I never believed her. I wanted more.

When I met David at college, he was attentive, sweet, a little awkward. He’d bring me coffee before class, leave notes in my textbooks. I mistook his gestures for destiny. When he proposed under the big oak tree behind the library, I said yes, blinded by the ring, by the idea of forever. My friends squealed, my mother wept, and my father just nodded like he knew something I didn’t.

Our wedding was beautiful—lace, wildflowers, and the promise of a life where I would be cherished above all else. But real life crept in like mildew. David worked long hours at the insurance agency, and I started as a paralegal at a downtown firm. Dinners became microwaved leftovers, laughter faded to silence. I waited for him to sweep me off my feet, to say something poetic, to adore me the way I deserved. But he was tired, distracted, content with the ordinary. I simmered with resentment.

My mother’s voice echoed in my head, but I pushed it away. I wanted fairy tales, not compromise. I wanted to be seen. And, as the years dragged on, I realized I wasn’t going to give him children. We tried—oh, how we tried. Doctor’s visits, endless tests, nights spent crying in the bathroom. When the verdict came—unexplained infertility—I felt something in me break. I blamed David for not fighting harder, for not loving me enough to make miracles happen. He blamed himself, I think, but he never said it. We just drifted, farther and farther apart, until the day I threw my ring in his face and walked out the door.

I moved into a tiny apartment above a bakery. The smell of bread in the mornings was the only comfort I had. I started seeing a therapist, who told me I had what she called “Cinderella syndrome.” She explained, gently, that I believed a man’s love could save me, transform me, make me whole. I laughed it off at first. But the words stuck.

Six months later, I met Ryan at a friend’s party. He was everything David wasn’t—bold, successful, charismatic. He wore expensive suits, drove a Tesla, and swept me into a world of weekend getaways and fancy restaurants. He made me feel special, at least for a while. When he proposed after a whirlwind romance, I didn’t hesitate. “Third time’s the charm!” my friends joked. I ignored the unease in my gut.

Ryan and I settled into a glossy condo in Chicago. He traveled for work, but when he was home, he showered me with gifts—jewelry, designer handbags, spa weekends. But it always felt transactional. He’d pat my head, call me “his queen,” and then return to his emails. I kept waiting for the adoration to feel real, to fill the emptiness inside me. But it never did.

We faced the same issue as before: no children. Ryan shrugged it off. “We’ve got each other, that’s enough,” he’d say, but I knew he was disappointed. His mother, a woman who wore pearls to brunch, once cornered me in the kitchen. “Maybe if you focused more on your marriage than your career, things would work out differently,” she hissed. I wanted to scream.

Family gatherings were a minefield. My own mother, now widowed, grew distant. “Emily, you can’t expect a man to be your everything. Happiness comes from within,” she said one Thanksgiving, her eyes tired. My younger sister, Megan, had three kids and a husband who adored her in the way I thought I wanted. I envied her, resented her, and hated myself for it.

Ryan started coming home later and later. I heard rumors—his assistant, a trip to Miami that lasted longer than scheduled. When I confronted him, he smiled a cold smile. “You wanted to be treated like a queen, Emily. But queens are often alone at the top.”

That night, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the woman I’d become. I saw the expensive dress, the flawless makeup, the emptiness in my eyes. I thought of all the years I’d spent waiting for someone else to make me feel whole, to worship me, to love me fiercely enough to erase my own doubts. I understood, finally, what my mother meant.

I filed for divorce. Again. My friends tried to be supportive, but I saw the judgment in their eyes. “Maybe you should focus on yourself for a while, Em,” Megan said, not unkindly. I started volunteering at a women’s shelter, trying to find meaning outside of my failed relationships. I learned to cook for one, to spend Friday nights with a book and a glass of wine instead of waiting for someone to come home.

Sometimes, I think about those two men—David, gentle and steady, and Ryan, dazzling and distant. I wonder if I ever really saw them, or if I was just seeing what I needed them to be. I wonder if I’ll ever be satisfied with ordinary love, with compromise, with the kind of happiness that isn’t a fairytale but is real and flawed and enough.

Now, as I sit by my window watching the city lights flicker, I ask myself: Was I searching for love, or was I running from myself? Can anyone truly make you feel like a queen if you don’t already believe you’re worthy?

What do you think? Is it wrong to want to be adored, or should we learn to adore ourselves first?