Meeting my friend Julian for our regular coffee catch-ups is one of the highlights of my month.

From the moment we sit down we barely stop for breath, covering everything from current events, relationship niggles and what our children are up to.

I know I can tell him anything. In short, he’s my best friend.

What you may be surprised to learn is that I’m in a happy long-term relationship with another man. Thankfully, Nick is very accepting of our friendship.

Even more shocking, I was married to Julian for more than two decades until, ten years ago, when I was 49, he broke my heart in the most devastating way.

It came out of the blue – or so it felt at the time.

We had been lying in bed together one night when suddenly Julian started crying and handed me a small white envelope.

Something was obviously very wrong – and my mind raced with possibilities. Was I about to discover my husband was hiding an affair, a hideous debt, a terminal illness?

Leanne and Julian were married for two decades and have three children together – but Julian had been hiding a devastating secret

Hands shaking as I opened the envelope, I desperately scanned the four pages, written in his always elegant handwriting.

Then my eyes fixed on three heart-stopping words: ‘I am gay.’

Impossible, I thought, my mind flashing back to the birth of our three incredible children, then 16, 18 and 20. Then to our wedding day 21 years earlier and the vows we’d taken to love and cherish each other for ever.

Fury bubbling inside me, I wanted to scream, to rip the letter into shreds and yet, in a calm voice I didn’t recognise, I heard myself ask: ‘Is this true? Did you ever love me? Have you been unfaithful? What does this all mean?’

‘I never wanted to hurt you, Leanne,’ he finally replied softly.

But he had. I’d just discovered the last two decades of my life had been a lie.

Was there any way that our marriage could survive this? And how had I not recognised the truth about Julian before?

Perhaps the answer lay in my upbringing. I grew up one of nine, with an abusive father. I hated him and knew I wanted to be with a man who was gentle and kind – the total opposite of my dad.

I coped by reminding myself that I had three beautiful children and most of the time our marriage was good. If a lack of sex was the price I had to pay for the life we had, I accepted that, says Leanne 

The night before our wedding, Julian nervously asked me: ‘Leanne, are we doing the right thing?’

Someone, in fact, exactly like Julian, who I’d met when I was 27 and studying to be a teacher.

For fun I’d gone to have my tarot cards read and when I told the reader I hoped to meet someone, her face lit up. ‘My brother Julian is a Leo, a teacher and from a big family, just like you,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I think you’d make the perfect match.’

At 25, Julian was handsome and charming but it was his quiet manner that really struck me.

When we met, he asked me questions and really seemed to care about the answers. I couldn’t believe this gentle, intelligent man was single.

At first, it didn’t bother me that he didn’t try to kiss me. But when we went away together three weeks later, he still didn’t make a move. That evening I stared at his long eyelashes and full lips, desperately hoping he’d take the hint, but he seemed oblivious.

Julian had confessed to being a virgin, so I understood that sex was a big step for him.

But the fact we still hadn’t even kissed left me confused, frustrated and a little annoyed.

I suggested that we take a break but a week later his mum called to tell me how sad Julian was without me. I was thrilled; surely this was a sign that we should try again?

This time, Julian was the passionate one and we began having sex, which was both frequent and thoroughly enjoyable.

I was so happy; it felt like the final piece of our relationship puzzle had fallen into place, especially when, six months later, Julian proposed.

But despite having put a ring on my finger, he still shied away from public displays of affection. When I snuggled up to him on a train one day, Julian froze, as if we were doing something inappropriate.

In those moments, when I felt a dart of rejection and uncertainty, I’d tell myself not to be silly. If I chose to be with an introvert, what did I expect?

Besides, Julian was passionate when we were alone and we were so compatible in all other ways. We both wanted children and were thrilled to discover that I was pregnant just two months after the proposal.

Suddenly our plan for a huge wedding the following winter seemed crazy. So we eloped. It felt very romantic. But the night before our wedding, Julian nervously asked me: ‘Leanne, are we doing the right thing?’

‘But while his love for the children was never in question, over the years our own connection began to fray’

I assumed he was concerned about how our families would react to our elopement and reassured him that everything would be fine.

Two decades later I’d remember his words and realise there was a very different worry behind them.

Still, Julian was delighted when I gave birth to our son, and then again when our two daughters followed. But while his love for the children was never in question, over the years our own connection began to fray.

After 11 years of marriage, sex dwindled from occasional to non-existent.

At a friend’s wedding, someone asked: ‘Julian, aren’t you proud of how beautiful your wife looks?’

All we got in reply was a distracted: ‘Mm, yes.’

His disinterest cut deep, especially because he was thoughtful in so many other ways.

I was a woman with desires and needs but was left feeling unloved and ugly. If I tried to bring up our lack of intimacy, he’d either refuse to discuss it or become defensive.

‘I just don’t need sex all the time,’ he’d say, clearly wishing the conversation over. ‘I’m not like other men.’

These were also words that I’d one day look back on through a very different lens.

I coped by reminding myself that I had three beautiful children and most of the time our marriage was good. If a lack of sex was the price I had to pay for the life we had, I accepted that.

Like many midlife women, I didn’t think I deserved more and just assumed this was what happened in a long marriage.

By January 2016, I was 49 and life had settled into a regular, if unexciting, rhythm. I still loved Julian and, after 21 years of marriage, I knew he loved me.

But it had been ten years since we’d had sex and affection was rare. If I was really upset, he might wrap me in his arms and, for a minute, I’d be overwhelmed with how good it felt to be touched. Then it was over.

The night my world collapsed, I walked into our bedroom expecting my usual peck on the cheek goodnight.

‘Julian told me that he’d always thought he was gay but, in his shame, he’d buried it’

Instead, Julian silently handed me the envelope with my name on the front and began to cry.

After reading his letter, hands still shaking, and with the words ‘I am gay’ endlessly repeating in my brain, I found myself listening as he sobbed.

‘Leanne, I had to tell you because I was afraid of what I might do, and you deserve someone so much better than me,’ he explained.

We stayed up the whole night talking, crying and holding each other. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d embraced like that and it felt good, even though I knew it was a life-changing revelation that had brought us into each other’s arms.

Julian told me that he’d always thought he was gay but, in his shame, he’d buried it. That while there had been some fumbles with a man before he met me, he’d never been unfaithful. I know many wives wouldn’t have believed him, but I did. I still do.

As I heard him express his undying love for me, I remembered a line in his letter: ‘I hope we can continue our marriage journey, albeit a different one.’

But I felt sick at the revelation that he’d been getting up early for years to secretly watch gay porn. That it was his guilt and desperation to be with a man that had led him to write the letter.

Yet I loved him and truly believed that now he was being honest, we could make it work.

I see now how utterly naive that was but, as bizarre as it sounds, the next few weeks felt like a second honeymoon.

Julian was a new man, affectionate and desperate to touch me, though in hindsight I can see this came from his desire for our marriage to survive his revelation rather than a newfound desire for me.

We wrote lists of the things we loved about each other and walked along the beach holding hands. I was giddy with love.

I took extra care of my appearance, desperately trying to win his approval. I was willing to do whatever it took. And if Julian needed to look at pictures of men occasionally, I told myself I could deal with that. Which is how I found us having sex again for the first time in over a decade, this time both of us looking at pictures or videos of naked men.

But seeing Julian’s desire for them in the pictures on screen, realising that our relationship would always involve another man, even if only in picture form, was too much.

Two weeks after his letter, my oldest daughter, then 18, found me crying in the garden. I tried to evade her questions but she realised it was something to do with Dad. Had he had an affair, she asked. ‘Not really,’ I replied.

She had always been very intuitive, picking up on things the rest of us might miss.

So I can only assume it was some instinct or inkling from what she’d observed of our relationship throughout her childhood that then made her ask: ‘Is Dad gay, Mum?’ 

I confess that it was with both sadness and relief that I replied: ‘Yes.’ We sat down as a family of five to talk. All three children cycled through confusion and anger.

Meanwhile, I battled insomnia, lying awake for hours, endlessly analysing our years together. I thought about Julian’s doubts the night before our wedding and felt sick.

How different life would be if I’d understood his real reason for fearing saying: ‘I do.’

One moment I was angry at myself for not realising the truth, the next furious at him for making my life, and our marriage, a sham.

I relentlessly asked him questions, believing that if I learned enough, I could move forward. Instead, I only heard things that broke me further.

Did Julian ever think of men when we’d kissed? ‘Sometimes,’ he replied.

The loving Valentine’s cards and wedding anniversary letters he’d written me, were they a lie?

‘I was just keeping up the act,’ he replied sadly, determined to stick to his promise to tell me the truth, no matter how painful. ‘I believed with time we could make it work.’

I desperately needed help. I opened up to a few close friends, who were supportive, but none truly understood the turmoil of my situation. Then I found an online support group for spouses whose partners had revealed they were gay.

It was a lifeline; here were people who knew exactly what I was going through. Sharing our stories, I discovered that many had been through worse, facing sexual infidelity that had put their own health at risk.

Five months after the letter, I was still on an emotional rollercoaster.

I was scared of being alone but also knew that I deserved more than being a substitute for Julian’s real desires.

Eventually I told him our marriage was over.

Julian accepted my decision with sadness but not anger and it took seven more months before he finally moved out.

Watching him drive away, it felt like a huge weight lifted from my shoulders.

While I still cared for him, I couldn’t imagine we’d stay close.

In the weeks that followed, we’d meet up to discuss practical divorce matters or the children.

But to my surprise, we found we could go for a walk or have a coffee and not endlessly rake over the past.

I found myself telling him that I’d begun writing as a way to help me process what had happened. I listened as he told me his hopes of meeting a man one day. Instead of pain at his words, I felt happy for him.

When we hugged goodbye, it felt like a moment with a friend.

Hearing Julian talk about possible future partners, I wondered about my own love life.

I wanted to try to fill the loneliness that I now saw had existed for years before Julian told me his secret. It wasn’t easy. When I tried speed dating six months after Julian left, I realised it was far too soon.

But a relationship with a handsome engineer I met through a mutual friend reminded me how exciting it was to fall for someone again and the sex was passionate and exciting.

He did his best to make me feel safe but it was so hard to truly trust anyone.

In turn, he struggled with my developing friendship with Julian. We split up after a year.

It was only after this that my friendship with Julian really blossomed.

By then, thanks in part to time passing, I’d fully accepted that Julian had never meant to hurt me. He continued to show me care and compassion. It was obvious that he truly wanted the very best for me.

As we continued to meet up and talk, I realised that I wasn’t in love with him as I had been before. My feelings for him were for a friend.

I was genuinely thrilled when he began a relationship with a man, just as he was when, six years ago, aged 53, I met my current partner Nick, then 55.

Nick has never felt threatened by my unusual journey or close friendship with Julian.

Now when Julian – who is currently single – and I see a show or meet for a meal, I’m proud of how far we’ve come.

A decade ago, I opened an envelope and thought my life was over. Instead, I discovered my true strength.

I deserved honesty and love – and want every woman to know that they deserve the same.

Julian’s name has been changed. My Gay Husband: How My Gay Ex-Husband Became My Best Friend by Leanne Azzopardi is out now (£5, amazon.co.uk)

As told to Kate Graham