I married the love of my life and then she disappeared. I didn't see Farrah in the mornings, when she'd leave for work before I'd wake up.
I didn't see her in the evenings, when she'd still be at her desk. I barely saw her at the weekends, when she'd be staring at a computer, editing copy for the magazine she had been hired to launch.
I only saw her at nights, for about an hour, when she'd sit beside me and recount the latest news about the men and women in her office.
It was fine at first. I work at home as a writer and could spend the evenings that she was now absent doing the share of the housework that she could no longer do.
Then our relationship started to feel different. She was in my life less and so in my thoughts less, as if she was being pulled away.
We began to bicker. No matter, I thought. When the magazine launches, everything will go back to normal. The magazine launched. Things didn't go back to normal.
Some nights she still spent editing copy, others were at launch events for beauty creams and gyms or cocktails with colleagues.
One night, in the early hours, I told her things had to change. And slowly they did. She started asking if I wanted to join her at launch events (I didn't, but the offer meant everything). She started to come home on time, made me dinner at the weekends and booked the romantic mini-breaks away that we needed.
The magazine has gone on to become a huge success and when, late last year, she was given the award for Best New Editor of the Year, no one was more thrilled than me. At last we have balance in our relationship.
We moved to the countryside last week and bought the dog she's always pined for. We're beginning to feel married now, which is to say middle-aged, comfortable, safe. But it's never safe, is it?
That's the truth about marriage that we've both learned since our vows. We're closer now than we've ever been, but as in love as we are, love alone is never enough.