A Way Through My Wife’s Affair
A real account submitted and used with permission.
We’d been married seven years, together for ten. I used to think we were one of the lucky ones. My wife always said she’d never cheat. I believed her. I still remember her anger when her own mother’s affair tore her family apart last year. It broke her heart to see the pain, and I thought we’d never be that story.
But life has a cruel way of echoing itself.
Last summer, I had the chance to visit my family after years of silence and broken ties. It wasn’t a vacation; it was an attempt to reconcile, to heal old wounds. My wife encouraged it. She was working for a catering company at music festivals, busy for three months straight. “Go,” she said. “It’s a good time.”
And it was, at first. We called when we could. We missed each other fiercely, talked about our future, and laughed until our cheeks hurt. It felt intimate, alive. But then, suddenly, something shifted. Her warmth disappeared. She became cold, distant, sharp with her words. I tried to explain it away by thinking she was tired, stressed, or maybe homesick. I never once thought she was cheating.
She was always the “good one.” The kind-hearted, respected one everyone trusted.
When I came home, she picked me up at the airport. But the woman driving that car was a stranger. She was quiet, detached, full of cryptic comments. I finally asked if she was breaking up with me. She said no, she “just needed time.” I told her I’d give her all the time she needed. I meant it.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Jet lag, love, hope—all of it buzzing in my head. I put in my earbuds and listened to music, grateful for the life I had. Then her phone started vibrating. I picked it up to silence it… and saw the messages.
At first, I thought it had to be a mistake. But there it was. The proof. Line after line. I remember walking outside, heart pounding, every step echoing with disbelief. When I confronted her, she wouldn’t talk. Not that night.
Later, when she finally did, I almost wished she hadn’t.
It started just three weeks into her job. The man was married too. He pretended to bond with her over quitting smoking. He got her drunk, told her everything she wanted to hear. She said she told him to stop. But he didn’t. And instead of walking away, she gave in. After that, it was daily. Our bed. Our home. The place that used to be sacred to us.
The night before she was supposed to pick me up, when she said she “didn’t have time to talk,” she was with him. And she didn’t even shower or change the sheets before coming to the airport.
That was the kind of detail I wish I’d never learned.
He went back to his wife, of course. My wife was left with the fallout, and so was I. For months afterward, she acted like I was the one who’d done something wrong. Cold. Distant. She said she had no feelings for me, that we were done. I almost left, suitcase packed. But as I stood in the doorway, she told me I could stay, though she warned me not to have hope.
Those were the worst months of my life. I was broken. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Some days, I begged God just for enough strength to make it through the next hour. Some days I thought about ending it all. Other days, about revenge. But somehow, every morning, I’d wake up and pray again. And somehow, I’d make it through another day.
She’s starting to change now. The fog is lifting. She’s beginning to see that maybe this man wasn’t who she thought he was, that she was manipulated, that she made choices that hurt us both. She’s beginning to love me again.
But I’m not the same man.
The pain doesn’t let go easily. Everything about her—her face, her touch, her laugh—reminds me of what she gave away. I know healing takes time, but sometimes it feels like time has stopped. I want to forgive. I want to love her again without the weight of betrayal pressing down on my chest. But I don’t know if I can.
So I pray. For strength. For guidance. To know whether to stay or to go.
It’s been over a year now since that summer. I still love her. I still hope. Because love still has a heartbeat. Maybe it’s enough to keep us alive until I can see clearly again.
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