When we are born, we immediately have a father and a mother.

Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that by coming into this world, we have made them parents.

That equation is created automatically. We don't choose it. We don't negotiate it. And from that day, the first attachment begins.

Whether that attachment helps us grow as human beings or not is another question.

Then come the relatives—people connected to our parents, and therefore connected to us.

Then school gives us friends. College gives us more friends. Work gives us colleagues. Slowly, life becomes a network of relationships.

And almost every relationship comes with an attachment.

But have you ever noticed how some relationships have an expiry date?

I heard throughout my childhood that my maternal uncles loved me immensely. My two uncles were extremely affectionate toward me.

Then they got married.

And something changed.

Their affection didn't disappear completely. But the time, attention and emotional availability gradually became smaller. Then they became parents, and the center of their attention shifted again.

My mother knows this too.

And this is usually accepted as normal.

But isn't it interesting?

We call it love.

Yet sometimes, there seems to be a timeline attached to this love.

Marriage happens.

Priorities change.

Children arrive.

Priorities change again.

And we simply say, "That's life."

Maybe it is.

But perhaps we should at least question it.

When Brothers Become Competitors

Take two brothers.

As children, they grow up in the same house. They fight, play, share things, complain about each other and eventually grow up.

Then both get married.

Suddenly, a dispute over their father's property can become a war.

Have you seen it?

Maybe you have.

And when you hear about such disputes, look closely.

Very often, it is no longer simply a dispute between two brothers.

There are now spouses.

Children.

Their future.

Their financial interests.

Their individual expectations.

Their ideas of security.

Their personal DNA footprint, and the creator of that footprint, have entered the equation.

The relationship has become a calculation.

Who gets what?

Who sacrificed more?

Who deserves more?

What about my family?

It is no longer simply:

"He is my brother."

The priority structure has changed.

And once the priority changes, the relationship changes with it.

This happens with parents too.

The same mother who once belonged completely to her children is also somebody else's daughter.

At one point in her life, she was someone's daughter, someone's sister, perhaps someone's wife.

Then she became a mother.

The role changed.

The priorities changed.

The identity changed.

And we keep calling all these changing equations by the same word:

Love.

What Happens to Friendship After Marriage?

Let's take friendships.

During college, a group of friends might travel together within whatever money they have.

No luxury.

No perfect hotel.

No carefully planned itinerary.

The destination wasn't always important.

The experience was.

You travelled.

You explored.

You drank.

You talked nonsense.

You laughed.

You came back with stories.

Then one by one, friends got married.

And slowly, the structure changed.

Wives started joining the trips.

The single friends smiled.

The wives smiled.

Everyone smiled.

Nobody questioned anything.

But why?

Who decided that your spouse must automatically become part of your friendship circle?

Why must your wife attend every gathering simply because she is your wife?

Why must your husband be included in every plan simply because he is your husband?

Have you ever questioned it?

Or are we simply following a social script?

Sometimes I look at gatherings in my own circle and notice something strange.

Some wives hardly participate in the conversation.

Whenever a topic comes up, they look at their husbands.

Maybe they have nothing to say.

Maybe they don't care about the topic.

Maybe they want to say something but don't.

Or maybe they are simply trying to perform the role of a "good partner."

Nobody knows.

But everyone smiles.

Because everyone has to.

The Travel Changes Too

Then comes another interesting transformation.

Before marriage, travelling meant exploration.

After marriage, travelling somehow becomes a carefully negotiated social arrangement.

The married friends suddenly have multiple gateway plans throughout the year.

But look at the pattern.

The major trips—the different state, different country, luxury holidays—are often reserved for family or in-laws.

With friends?

Nearby.

One or two days.

A different bed.

A different scenery.

Some drinks.

And back home.

And even there, the wife may come along.

Sometimes permission is granted for an all-boys trip.

But usually for a day or two.

And preferably somewhere that doesn't look too extraordinary.

Because if the destination becomes too interesting, the wife might as well be included.

Again—

Who created this rule?

Where is it written?

Why must a married man automatically convert every friendship into a marriage-approved activity?

And why does the married woman have to do the same?

Nobody knows.

But everybody follows it.

Then Comes the Car

There is another funny coincidence I noticed.

Almost every friend of mine bought a car—or learned to drive—after marriage.

Why?

Why does this suddenly become necessary after marriage?

And another strange coincidence:

The driver is usually my male friend.

Not his wife.

So what exactly changed?

Was the car bought for transportation?

For family responsibility?

For social status?

For fulfilling the image of becoming a proper married man?

I don't know.

But sometimes I wonder whether we have created a very sophisticated version of transaction and then renamed it love.

You provide companionship.

Security.

Sex.

Social legitimacy.

Family continuity.

Financial stability.

And in return, you receive affection, access, responsibility, protection, status and a socially approved identity.

And then we proudly call the entire transaction:

LOVE.

The Spouse Is Still an Individual

This is where the problem becomes more interesting.

The moment someone gets married, the ego becomes heavily invested in one statement:

"I chose this person."

And once the ego has made that choice, it desperately wants to prove that the choice was correct.

So the chosen person slowly becomes part of everything.

My family.

My friends.

My holidays.

My social circle.

My decisions.

My celebrations.

My problems.

My identity.

But wait.

That person is still an individual.

She has her own likes.

Her own dislikes.

Her own friends.

Her own priorities.

Her own boredom.

Her own interests.

And the same applies to him.

You cannot force another human being to become a permanent extension of yourself simply because you married them.

You may love your friends without making your wife part of every friendship.

You may love your wife without abandoning every independent friendship.

You may love your parents without expecting your spouse to automatically love them in exactly the same way.

You may love your spouse without making them participate in every part of your life.

Because love doesn't necessarily mean merging two people into one social identity.

Sometimes love should simply mean:

You are you.

I am me.

And we don't have to destroy that to be together.

The EGO's Version of Love

And now comes the real problem.

EGO.

Ego doesn't really care about love.

Ego cares about ownership, identity and validation.

Ego says:

"This is my wife."

"This is my husband."

"These are my children."

"This is my family."

"My brother."

"My parents."

"My friends."

Notice the word.

My.

The relationship becomes part of the ego's identity.

And once something becomes part of the ego's identity, protecting that relationship becomes equivalent to protecting oneself.

That's why a brother can fight another brother over property.

Not necessarily because he stopped loving him.

But because something else has become more important to the ego.

My family's future.

My children's security.

My share.

My status.

My decision.

The ego keeps rearranging the hierarchy.

First:

My parents.

Then:

My friends.

Then:

My partner.

Then:

My children.

Then:

My children's future.

And every time the hierarchy changes, we call the new arrangement love.

But perhaps it is often just attachment adapting itself to the ego's current priorities.

The ego chooses a person.

Then it needs the world to validate that choice.

So it says:

"This is my better half."

And now the relationship must prove that the ego made the correct decision.

The spouse must fit.

The family must accept.

The friends must adjust.

The social circle must accommodate.

The individual must compromise.

And if someone refuses to play the role, conflict begins.

Because the ego doesn't hear:

"I don't want to do this."

It hears:

"Your choice was wrong."

And that is much harder for the ego to accept.

So it creates another story.

"She doesn't respect my family."

"He doesn't understand my responsibilities."

"My friends have changed."

"My wife doesn't adjust."

"My husband doesn't care."

Everyone becomes the problem.

Except the system of attachment itself.

Perhaps the real question is not:

"Do you love your relationships?"

The question is:

"Can you love someone without turning them into a part of your identity?"

Because the moment I need another person to behave in a particular way so that I can feel secure about who I am, it may no longer be love.

It may simply be ego protecting its investment.

And that investment can be called marriage.

Or family.

Or friendship.

Or tradition.

Or responsibility.

The name doesn't matter.

The mechanism does.

Ego attaches.

Society approves the attachment.

The relationship creates expectations.

Expectations create obligations.

Obligations change priorities.

Priorities change relationships.

And then we call the entire process — love.

Maybe it is time to stop blindly following the script.

Be with someone.

Love someone.

Care for someone.

But let them remain a person.

And let yourself remain one too.

Because two people don't become one just because society gave their relationship a name.