I am a 61-year-old man, and I’ve been married to my wife for 35 years. We have two grown children in their 30s and one grandchild. From the outside, and honestly even from my perspective until recently, we had what most would call a stable, loving marriage. That’s why I’m still in shock and heartache after discovering something my wife has kept hidden from me for decades. I found out that she has a secret brokerage account in her name containing over $600,000. She started this account in the year 2000, which was right after a very dark period in our marriage—one that was entirely my fault.
Let me explain the background. In 1990, I married the love of my life. Let’s call her “Mary” (not her real name). I was 26 and she was 24. We were young, crazy about each other, and ready to start a family. The first decade of our marriage had its ups and downs like any marriage, but overall I thought we were happy. We had our first child in 1992 (a daughter, now 33) and our second in 1995 (a son, now 30). Those early years were a blur of work, diapers, laughter, and some struggles with money, but we were a solid team. Mary and I both worked—she built a career in marketing while I was climbing the ladder in my field (engineering at the time). We shared chores and parenting as equally as we could. We weren’t perfect, but we truly loved each other. Or so I believed.
Then, in our tenth year of marriage, 2000, I made the worst mistake of my life. I had a one-night stand while on a business trip. No long-term affair, no ongoing fling—just one terrible, drunken night with a woman I met at a hotel bar. To this day I can barely reconcile that foolish man with who I thought I was. I was racked with guilt immediately. The next morning, I felt sick about what I’d done. I had never cheated before and have not since, but I betrayed my wife’s trust in an unforgivable way.
When I returned home, I couldn’t hide my guilt. Mary knew something was off right away. I ended up confessing to her only a few days later because the shame was eating me alive. I will never forget the look on her face when I told her. It was like I had slapped her, like everything joyful just drained out of her eyes. She didn’t yell. She just… broke. She went silent for a long time, then locked herself in our bedroom and cried.
The months that followed were hell for both of us. At first, she couldn’t even look at me. She refused to speak to me except about practical things regarding the kids. I had destroyed the person I loved most, and I hated myself. I begged for her forgiveness, wrote letters, tried to do everything to show how sorry I was and how committed I was to fixing what I broke. We did a few marriage counseling sessions at the time, but money and time were tight (we had two young kids and demanding jobs), and honestly I don’t think either of us were emotionally equipped at that age to truly go through the long process of healing properly. We kind of stumbled through it on our own, painfully.
After a few months, she decided not to leave me. We never formally separated; she didn’t ask for a divorce. Looking back, I think a major reason she stayed was our children—they were 8 and 5 then. Mary has always been a devoted mother, and the thought of breaking up the family and raising them in a split home was something she couldn’t bear at that time. She also told me (eventually) that she still loved me deeply but was just so hurt and needed time. So we stayed together.
That period was a slow, cautious rebuilding. I had to earn back her trust (or so I thought). I gave her complete access to my life—my phone, my email, whatever she needed to feel secure. I cut off a couple of friendships with coworkers who had been with me on that trip, because she felt uncomfortable that they “let” me stray (in truth, they tried to stop me, and it was all on me, but I understood her needing someone to blame besides me). We established new boundaries—I would never travel alone if we could help it, and if I had to, I agreed I’d call her every night no matter the time zone. I was totally fine with all of it. I just wanted to prove to her I was safe to trust again.
It was a long road. For a couple years, our marriage was quite strained. We had good days where it felt like maybe we’d be okay, and then bad days where a trigger would set her off. For example, if I came home a bit late from work or if I didn’t answer the phone right away, Mary would get extremely anxious or sometimes angry. I once found her checking the mileage on my car, which gutted me, but I understood. She had never been an insecure or jealous person before—I had made her into one, and I hated myself for it. I tried my best to be patient and consistently reassuring, no matter how many times we went through the same conversations about how sorry I was.
Gradually, the wounds seemed to heal, or at least scar over. By around 2003 or 2004 (a few years after the affair), I felt like we had really turned a corner. Mary seemed more like her old self with me. She stopped bringing it up in arguments (in fact, we rarely argued at all, perhaps because I walked on eggshells for a long time to avoid upsetting her). Our intimacy returned—slowly, trustingly, she opened up to me again physically and emotionally. We fell into a new rhythm. We even eventually would talk about the affair calmly, a few times, almost as if it was a cautionary tale from a distant past. It seemed like something we had conquered.
By all appearances, for the next two decades, our marriage was rock solid. I truly believed we had made it through the worst storm imaginable and come out the other side intact. Our kids grew up seeing what I thought was a loving, stable parental relationship. We never told them about my infidelity (at least, not while they were young—I’ve since had to tell them, which I’ll get to later). We both progressed in our careers. By 2020, we paid off our mortgage and started seriously planning for retirement. We made it a point over the years to take trips together (eventually she felt comfortable trusting me on trips again, and often we traveled as a couple or family). We developed shared hobbies (hiking, wine tasting). When our first grandchild was born two years ago, I remember holding my wife’s hand at the hospital, both of us teary-eyed with joy, and I whispered, “We did it, we made a beautiful life together.” I meant it with all my heart.
So you can imagine my complete and utter shock when, just a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon evidence of what feels like a massive secret life (or at least secret plans) that my wife has been harboring for the past 25 years. It was a Saturday, and I was cleaning out the old filing cabinet in our home office. We’re preparing to downsize from our big family house to a smaller place now that we’re empty nesters, and we have decades of paperwork accumulated. Mary was out with a friend that morning, so I decided to surprise her by organizing some of our files. We have a shared filing cabinet where we keep tax documents, insurance, house records, that kind of thing.
In one of the bottom drawers, I found a big manila envelope that was unmarked. Inside, I was startled to find a bunch of old financial statements for an investment brokerage account—an account in my wife’s name only, from a firm we never use for our joint investments. The statements were from early 2000 through around 2005. The earliest statement showed an opening balance of around $30,000 in mid-2000. The statements showed regular deposits going in, dividends being reinvested, and the balance growing over time to well over $100,000 by 2005. I had never seen or heard of this account before. We had always been mostly open about money, or so I thought. Back when we first married, we had separate checking accounts but shared expenses; after the affair, ironically, I thought we became even more transparent with each other financially. Eventually we combined most of our finances as the years went on. Or again, so I believed.
I stared at those statements for a long time, feeling like I had discovered evidence of an affair or something. My mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusions: Was she siphoning money from our accounts? Why? How did I not notice? Was she planning to leave me back then and changed her mind? And wait, if the statements only go to 2005 in this envelope, does that mean this account still exists and she kept it going after 2005?
My hands were literally shaking. I shoved the papers back in the envelope and put it back where I found it, trying to pretend I hadn’t seen it. I sat down, heart pounding out of my chest, trying to rationalize. Perhaps it was money from an inheritance? (Though I knew that wasn’t likely—her parents were middle class folks with not much savings; her father passed in the late 90s and left a small insurance payout, but we used most of that for a new roof back then). Perhaps a work bonus she saved? But why wouldn’t she tell me if so? We always talked about financial goals together.
For a brief moment, a darker thought crossed my mind: Is she funding some kind of habit or… affair? That idea made me feel physically sick. I had no reason in all these years to suspect she ever cheated on me. She always seemed so steady, so trustworthy—the loyal one of the two of us. She would occasionally go on girls’ trips or have local outings with friends, but nothing about her behavior ever struck me as odd or secretive. And $600k is a LOT of money for personal spending or a hidden habit. Her personality has never fit with gambling or shopping addictions. She’s pretty frugal, always finding deals and rarely buying expensive things for herself.
I realized I needed more information before confronting her. My first thought was to check if the account still existed in the present day. The statements were old; maybe it was something she closed long ago. If it was still open, there would likely be more recent records. I knew snooping was a breach of trust, but at that moment I felt like I was the one who had been lied to. (The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m complaining about being lied to, given my past. Believe me, that self-awareness is part of what’s making this so emotional and confusing for me.)
I decided to do some digging carefully. I remembered that about a year ago, we had refinanced our mortgage (to take advantage of low interest rates). During that process, we both had to provide financial information, and we received an electronic copy of our combined financial statement from the bank. I quickly logged into our home computer and found that PDF. It listed all accounts either of us had disclosed to the bank. Sure enough, there it was: an account under Mary’s name with that same brokerage (I’ll call it “Brokerage X” here). The balance listed was about $580,000 as of last year. My heart sank and my stomach did a backflip. Not only did that account still exist, it had grown tremendously—presumably now even over $600k with this year’s market gains. And she had never, ever mentioned it in any of our retirement planning talks or casual conversations about money.
For context: We are not super rich or anything, but we’re comfortable middle class now. We have some retirement savings together, equity in our home, etc. But $600k is a huge chunk of money relative to our net worth. It’s more than what we have in our joint 401(k)s combined. The fact that she squirreled away a sum of that magnitude without my knowledge… it felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. It screamed one thing to me: she never really trusted me after the affair. She’d been secretly preparing a nest egg—maybe even an escape fund—”just in case.” And the fact that it’s continued all these years suggests that even though on the surface we were good, she always, deep down, stayed on guard.
I cannot overstate how destabilizing this realization was. I actually went to the bathroom and threw up. Part of me wanted to immediately call her and demand answers. Part of me was terrified to confront it, because that would make it real. In a weird way, in those first moments I also felt a twisted sense of justice against myself—like, “well, I guess I deserved this, didn’t I? This is the consequence of my betrayal 25 years ago. She had to have a Plan B because I ruined Plan A.” The self-loathing came rushing back full force, mixing with this new feeling of betrayal from her. It was a miserable cocktail of emotions.
I spent the next few hours pacing the house, going back to the cabinet, rereading the old statements, then looking at that recent financial statement PDF again to make sure I wasn’t misunderstanding. It was all clear as day. When she started that account around mid-2000, it was just a few months after my affair came to light. So while I was desperately trying to repair our relationship, she must have quietly opened her own investment account and began funneling money into it. I noted that initial $30k deposit and wracked my brain as to where she could have gotten that kind of money at the time. We weren’t financially well-off in 2000; we had some savings but not that much lying around.
I realized she likely found a way to scrape together that initial sum somehow—perhaps holding back part of her inheritance or our home-sale proceeds. But the exact “how” wasn’t even the main issue. What mattered was that she’d felt the need to do it at all.
Eventually, Mary came home that afternoon, cheerful from her brunch with a friend, and found me in the home office. I must have looked sick or stricken, because she immediately asked if I was okay. I knew I couldn’t hide my feelings; I’m a terrible actor. My heart started hammering again. I remember my voice was shaking. I said something like, “I found something concerning while I was organizing files.” She looked confused, and I handed her the manila envelope with the statements, saying, “Maybe you can explain this to me.”
She opened it and immediately her face changed. She sort of froze, then let out a long breath. “Where did you find this?” she asked quietly. I pointed to the drawer. She nodded, like she understood it was fair I’d stumbled on it. Then she said, very calmly, “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Just that sentence made my blood run cold. Find out what, exactly? That she’d been lying to me for 25 years? That our financial life isn’t what I thought? That she never forgave me?
I realized I was holding my breath, and a thousand thoughts were zipping through my mind, but I was just silent. She sat down on the couch in the office, the envelope in her lap, and patted the spot next to her for me to sit. It felt surreal—like she was about to tell me she’d been unfaithful or something, that kind of serious vibe.
I sat down, but on the very edge, keeping some distance. I was probably visibly upset—my face was hot, my eyes already stinging with tears. I managed to say, “Why… why, Mary? What is this? $600,000? In your own account? Why?”
Her eyes teared up and she said, “I never meant for you to find out like this.” Which struck me as an odd thing to say—it implied she did mean for me to find out at some point, just not “like this.”
I blurted, “Were you ever going to tell me?” And she responded, “Maybe. Someday. I don’t know.”
At this point I was getting frustrated and scared. I said something like, “I feel like I don’t even know you. Please, just explain to me. Are you planning to leave me? Is that what this is for? Or do you have some kind of problem I don’t know about? I’m completely blindsided here, Mary. Please just be honest.” I was pleading by the end of it; I could hear my voice cracking. Honestly I thought I might faint from the adrenaline and fear.
She started crying then—not sobbing, but tears rolling down her cheeks. She wouldn’t look at me, just stared at the floor and said, “It was my safety net. I started it when… after… you know, after your affair.”
It’s hard to describe what I felt in that moment. I had suspected it was something like that, but hearing her say it still made my heart break. It was confirmation that, yes, this was because of what I did. She continued, haltingly, trying to explain. She said that when I cheated on her, her entire world imploded. She questioned everything—whether she was enough for me, whether I still loved her, whether she’d been naive to trust me, whether our kids would end up from a broken home, all of it. She said that when she decided to stay and try to work things out, she promised herself she’d never be left unprepared again. That she would never be “blindsided” by me or anyone else like that, without a plan.
So, she started squirreling away money. Some of it was from the small inheritance from her dad (she admitted she didn’t put the full amount toward our house mortgage like she’d told me she did). Later, as she went back to working full-time and advanced in her career, she kept her own separate savings. She said she funneled bonuses and extra commission checks into that brokerage account. We always had somewhat separate finances—like each our own checking for personal expenses and a joint for household bills. She said she just made sure to consistently put a chunk of “her” money into this account before it ever hit our joint accounts.
Then she said something that really stung: “For a long time, I wasn’t sure if we would really make it, or if I’d have to leave one day. I needed to know I could stand on my own feet if that happened. Having that money made me feel secure.”
I was just quiet, letting her talk, in absolute disbelief. I think I was in shock and also trying not to explode in anger or say something I’d regret. She went on to say that as years went by and our marriage improved, the fund became less about an escape plan and more about a “personal safety net” and, in her words, “for my peace of mind.” She said she mostly stopped actively adding to it once it reached a certain amount (she didn’t say exactly when, but I got the sense maybe once it hit a few hundred thousand, she scaled back contributions). After that, it just grew on its own from investments. She said, “It’s all still there. I never touched it except to reinvest. It’s not like I was spending it behind your back. It was just there in case…”
She trailed off, and I finished the sentence, “…in case I gave you reason to leave.” She looked at me with a very sad expression and said quietly, “In case either of us had to leave, or something happened.”
This is where I did get angry. I asked, “Something like what? What did you think was going to happen, Mary? We’ve been happy for decades, haven’t we? Or was that a lie? Did you really never trust me again after 2000? You never believed in us after that?” I was on my feet at this point, pacing while she stayed sitting, crying softly.
She tried to calm me down, saying it wasn’t like that, that she did trust me “in day-to-day life” and that she loves me, but that after that kind of betrayal, something changed in her. She said, “I realized I could never 100% rely on anyone but myself. Not you, not anyone. Because even good people can hurt you unexpectedly.” She added that having her own money that I didn’t know about made her feel she had control over her life, just in case. She again apologized that it felt like a betrayal to me, but at the time (and for years) she truly believed it was just a private fail-safe that hurt no one.
I was… a mess of feelings. I remember saying, “How can you say it hurt no one? It hurts me to know this, Mary. It hurts that you kept this from me all these years. We were supposed to be a team. We promised to share everything—or at least, that’s what I thought we promised.”
She got a bit defensive and replied, “We promised to be honest and faithful to each other. I kept my vows after you broke them. So don’t stand there and act all betrayed.”
That took the wind out of me. She had never thrown my affair in my face so directly like that in the last 20-some years. But now it was out in the open—all the resentment and pain. It was clear that as much as I thought we healed, a part of her was frozen in that moment in 2000 when I confessed. A part of her never left that defensive crouch.
I felt myself getting angrier and more hurt and I said, “So this is my punishment forever? I can’t ever be trusted again, so you hide hundreds of thousands of dollars and lie to my face for a lifetime? If you couldn’t actually forgive me, why did you even stay?”
The moment I said that, I saw her expression change. She looked panicked, like I’d slapped her. She stood up and said, “I didn’t stay to punish you. I stayed because I loved you and I wanted our family. I did forgive you as much as I could. This money… it’s not about punishing you. It was never about hurting you at all.”
I responded, voice rising, “But it is about me, isn’t it? It’s literally because of what I did. Every time you diverted money, every time you looked at this secret account, you were thinking about how I betrayed you. You were keeping that betrayal alive, Mary. Even if our daily life was good, part of you was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
We were both crying by now. She said, “Yes, I was. I was always afraid deep down. But it wasn’t like I obsessed over it every day. It was just a comfort to know I had something of my own if I needed it. Can’t you understand that even a little?” She sounded almost pleading.
I do understand it, on an intellectual level. But emotionally, in that moment, I just felt devastated. This was the woman I have lived with for half my life, the woman I thought I knew inside and out. And here I was learning that she had this whole separate contingency plan for a worst-case scenario involving me. It made me feel like the entire foundation of our marriage was false. If she never fully trusted me, then the closeness we had might have been an illusion or a partial truth at best.
At some point, I just went quiet. She asked me softly if I was okay. I said I needed some air and time to think. She offered to answer any questions I had, but I was too overwhelmed to even know what to ask beyond the obvious “why,” which she’d already answered.
I ended up leaving the house and going for a long drive. I drove to the beach (about 30 minutes away) and just sat in the car, watching the waves and absolutely breaking down sobbing. I haven’t cried like that in decades. I felt like that 36-year-old man back in 2000 who had realized what he’d just thrown away—except this time, I was on the other end of a betrayal (albeit of a different kind), and also grappling with the fact that it was ultimately my past actions that set this whole mess into motion.
I got myself together enough to text our daughter (the one who’s local—our son lives across the country) that I was taking a drive and would be back later. I didn’t want anyone worrying. I definitely did not tell her what was going on; I couldn’t even process it myself yet.
When I eventually returned home that evening, my wife was in our bedroom, lying on the bed. She’d obviously been crying too; her eyes were red and swollen. We didn’t talk much that night. I told her I just can’t discuss it more right now, I’m exhausted. She said she understood. I slept on the couch that night—not out of spite, but because I felt like my world had been upended and I didn’t want to be near anyone. She asked me to please come to bed, but I just couldn’t. I needed to be alone.
That was a few weeks ago. In the days since, things have been… tense, awkward, painful. We alternate between calm, civil discussions and emotional outbursts or periods of icy silence. Some days we function almost normally on the surface (discussing what to eat, watching a show together in silence), and other days one of us will break down and retreat to another room. We haven’t told our kids yet, but they sense something is off. My daughter even asked why I was sleeping in the guest room—she half-jokingly inquired if I was “in trouble for snoring or something.” I just mumbled something about a heavy cold. I feel bad lying to her.
I am so lost. I don’t know what to do. On one hand, I feel like this is the ultimate betrayal from her, even though logically I understand why she did it. On the other hand, I feel overwhelming guilt because I put the mistrust in her heart with my own selfish actions 25 years ago. A big part of me is screaming, “This is your fault, you idiot, you did this to us.” But another part of me is also angry at her: we had rebuilt a life, and she didn’t truly share herself with me completely. She didn’t give me the chance to fully regain her trust; instead, she smiled at me while secretly keeping one foot out the door all these years (or at least that’s how it feels to me).
I haven’t been able to eat or sleep properly since this came out. I’m alternating between depression and panic. I don’t know if our marriage can survive this. The irony is, I don’t really have a moral high ground to stand on—it’s hard for me to say “I can’t believe you lied to me!” without immediately hearing “Well, you lied and cheated on her first.” I feel I have no right to my own anger or hurt, and yet I do feel those things.
We haven’t even begun to discuss practical matters like what to do with that money now, or whether we separate our finances, or if we’ll do a formal separation or what. Right now it’s just raw pain and fragile interactions. Part of me wonders if our marriage has been broken for longer than I realized. Should we have split up back in 2000 and spared ourselves this slow-motion train wreck? But then I think of our beautiful family and all the truly good times we’ve had and I don’t regret staying together. I just wish… I wish that my one night of stupidity hadn’t planted this poison seed that grew in the dark all this time.
I could really use some objective perspective on this. That’s why I’m posting here on a throwaway. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone in real life yet—not even my closest friend or our children. I can’t bear for them to see our marriage in a different light, at least not until I know what this all means and what we’re going to do.
TL;DR: I (61M) cheated on my wife (59F) for one night 25 years ago. We stayed together and rebuilt our marriage—or so I thought. I just discovered she’s been secretly hoarding money (now $600k) for 25 years in a private brokerage account as an “emergency fund” after my affair. I feel betrayed and horribly guilty at the same time. I don’t know how to move forward or if our marriage can be honestly repaired.
EDIT: Thank you to everyone who has commented with support, advice, or even tough love. I wasn’t expecting this post to get much attention, but I’ve read through a lot of the responses and it’s been overwhelming (in a mostly good way) to see strangers care. A few clarifications based on common questions:
- Did my wife ever cheat on me or have an affair as revenge? I honestly don’t think so. She has never given me reason to suspect infidelity. Even now, I believe the money was about security for her, not about her having someone on the side. (More on this in the update below, though.)
- Have we considered counseling? Yes. In fact, last night after I posted this, Mary and I talked (for the first time in a couple days of mostly avoiding each other). We agreed that we need professional help to navigate this. I reached out to a marriage counselor that a friend of mine recommended, and we have an appointment scheduled for next week. I realize we should have done this ages ago (honestly we probably should have stayed in counseling back in 2000, but hindsight is 20/20).
- Am I planning to divorce her or take legal action regarding the money? I don’t know yet. I did quietly consult with a lawyer two days ago, just to understand my options and rights. (I haven’t told Mary this yet.) The lawyer told me that since the money was acquired during the marriage, it would likely be considered marital property in a divorce despite being in her name. That was surprising to hear, and I have mixed feelings about it. On one hand, it reassures me she couldn’t just take it and run without consequence; on the other hand, it feels wrong to think about it in terms of “mine vs hers”—I hate that we’re even in a place where a lawyer’s advice is relevant. I have not made any moves legally. Right now, I’m holding out hope that counseling will help us figure out if this marriage can be saved. I love my wife, despite everything, and I’m not ready to throw away 35 years unless I truly have no other choice.
- Why didn’t I notice $600k missing over the years? To clarify, she was contributing to that fund from her earnings and any windfalls she got. We always had somewhat separate finances by agreement. After the affair, we divided certain financial responsibilities and kept some independence: for instance, we each had personal accounts for our paychecks, and a joint account for household bills that we both funded. I handled the mortgage and investments for retirement accounts I knew about; she paid for groceries and household stuff and saved what she wanted from her own salary. I realize now that allowed her to hide this. I never monitored her personal account or asked details beyond our shared budget items. In trust, I grew complacent and just didn’t see the need to scrutinize. So that’s how $600k could accumulate without me knowing.
- How am I feeling now? Still like I’m on a rollercoaster. One moment I feel like I understand why she did it and I just feel guilty for causing it. The next moment I feel angry and betrayed that she acted in secret for decades. It’s a lot to process. I appreciate the comments reminding me that my feelings are valid despite my past mistakes. I’m trying to remember that forgiveness I earned once can possibly be earned both ways, if we choose that path.
I’ll post an update after we have the counseling session or if anything significant happens. Right now, we’re in a painful limbo, but at least the silence between us has been broken a little. We even managed to have dinner at the same table tonight, though it was very quiet and awkward. It’s a start, I guess.
UPDATE (2 weeks later): Where to even begin… The last two weeks have been emotionally exhausting, but also illuminating. My wife and I had our first marriage counseling session last week, and another one yesterday. We’ve also had many long, difficult talks at home. There have been some startling revelations on both sides that I’m still trying to come to terms with.
First off, the counseling: The very first session was rough. We were both bundles of nerves going in—I could barely sit still in the waiting room. Mary looked on the verge of tears even before we started. When we sat down with the therapist (a gentle, middle-aged man who specializes in couples with trust issues), I suddenly felt a strange sense of déjà vu to 25 years ago, sitting in a counselor’s office with my furious and heartbroken wife after I cheated. Except this time, it was my turn to be angry and hurt, and I think that role reversal was hard for both of us to swallow.
The therapist asked us to each explain, in our own words, what brought us there. I let my wife go first. She said something like, “We’re here because I betrayed his trust by hiding a large sum of money for many years, and because our marriage is in trouble.” Hearing her say “betrayed his trust” while her voice cracked nearly broke my heart all over again. She acknowledged that what she did was wrong and that it has hurt me deeply.
When it was my turn, I struggled to speak at first. I admitted that yes, I feel betrayed and shattered by what I discovered, and that I’m also grappling with guilt because the situation exists as a result of my own past infidelity. I recall saying, “It’s like we never truly healed from something 25 years ago, and it’s coming back to destroy us now.”
The therapist guided us into talking about that old affair of mine, because clearly it’s the root of all this. We rehashed a lot of feelings from back then. It was very emotional—at one point I was sobbing openly talking about how sorry I still am for hurting her, and she was crying too, saying that was the worst pain she’d ever felt. In a strange way, it felt good to have that out in the open again, like lancing a boil—painful but releasing pent-up infection. We’d kind of swept the worst of it under the rug for years, afraid to touch it. Now we were being forced to face it head on, and it was raw but necessary.
One thing that came out of the first session was the therapist asking my wife directly if she ever truly forgave me and, if not, what forgiveness would look like to her. Mary answered honestly that at the time she thought she had forgiven me as much as she could, and she did recommit to the marriage—but, she admitted, “I don’t think I ever forgave him 100%. I think I accepted what happened and moved forward, but part of me never let go of the fear.” The therapist gently pointed out that her creating a secret safety net was evidence of that lingering trauma and lack of full trust. She nodded, crying, and said it was never about revenge, only fear and self-preservation.
I also had to talk about forgiving myself (or my failure to) and how that influenced my responses over the years. It was intense and draining, but by the end of that first session I felt a tiny bit of hope—like, okay, we aired the dirty laundry and we’re still sitting here, still willing to try.
Between sessions, a lot happened. One major event: I finally told our children what’s going on. This was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had, but I think it was necessary. Here’s how it went down: After that first therapy session, I felt so emotionally raw that I needed support. I have a best friend, “John,” whom I’ve known since college—he’s like a brother to me. I realized I needed to talk to someone in real life, and I ended up confiding in him (in broad strokes) about what was happening. I told John about my affair back then (he actually already knew; I had called him the day after it happened in 2000, panicking, and he was the one who urged me to come clean to Mary. He’s always been a good friend and a good man). I told him that now I discovered Mary’s secret fund and that we were in counseling. John listened and gave me some hard but honest advice. He said, “You both messed up in different ways. If you still love each other and can find a way, don’t throw it away without a fight. But also, don’t stay just because you’re scared to be alone or feel you ‘deserve’ misery as penance. Do what will make you both happier in the long run, even if that’s apart.” It was a good reality check that I shouldn’t make a decision out of guilt or fear alone.
That conversation with John gave me the courage to speak to my kids about this. They’re adults now, and I felt they have a right to know that their parents are struggling—especially if it might end in separation. I also just… I hated keeping it a secret, as if we were living a lie in front of them.
So, my wife and I agreed together that we would tell the kids, carefully. We decided to do it with both of us present. Our son couldn’t be here in person (he’s across the country with a newborn, so flying out was tough), but our daughter is local. We arranged for our son to join via video call while our daughter came over to our house in person. I was shaking and terrified as we sat down together. When both kids were “present,” they immediately knew something serious was up. My daughter said softly, “You’re scaring me.”
I took a deep breath and told them the hardest thing I’ve ever had to admit: that I was unfaithful to their mother once, many years ago, when they were little. As expected, they were shocked and upset. My son’s face on the screen went pale, and my daughter burst into tears. I explained that I told their mom at the time, and that we worked through it and stayed together, and that we’ve had many good years since.
Then Mary gently told them about her secret money fund. She admitted she started saving it after my infidelity because she was afraid and needed security. She told them keeping it hidden was wrong and apologized for not being honest.
Our kids listened, trying to process everything. Our son’s first question was, “Are you getting a divorce?” We told him we truly hope not—that we are going to counseling and trying to work things out. My daughter, through tears, asked my wife, “Do you even want to stay with Dad after everything?” Mary answered that she did—that she still loved me and valued the life we built, even though she had been deeply hurt.
Our son then asked my wife, a bit angrily, “If you love him, why hide money for years? It feels like you never really trusted him.” Mary admitted she was afraid to trust fully after being hurt, and I chimed in to help explain that her actions were driven by fear, not lack of love.
He then said quietly that he felt like his childhood was based on a lie. We both apologized to him and to our daughter for not being more open and for letting them think we were perfect. We explained that we kept these issues hidden because we didn’t want to burden them and truly believed we had moved past it.
My daughter wiped her eyes and said, “I’m upset, but I’m glad you told us now. We love you both, and we just want you to be okay—together or apart. Please, no more secrets, okay? We can handle the truth.”
By the end of that conversation, all four of us were in tears. But there was also a sense of relief—like a dark family secret had finally come into the open and we were all still standing. After our kids knew the full truth, Mary and I sat on the couch holding each other and just cried together. So much anger and tension between us seemed to dissolve into shared sorrow and regret. That night, for the first time in weeks, we fell asleep in the same bed – holding each other close, clinging to the comfort of still having each other despite everything.
Now, onto the “second betrayal” I alluded to, which came to light in the midst of all this. This part is the hardest for me to even write. In our counseling session yesterday, we were discussing lingering resentments and any other secrets that needed airing, guided by the therapist. He asked my wife if there was anything else significant she had kept from me, no matter how old. Mary went silent for a long time. My heart started pounding because I could see on her face that she did have something. I honestly didn’t expect what came next: Mary confessed that about two years after my affair, she had an affair of her own.
Even typing those words, I feel a rush of anger, sadness, and oddly a tinge of grim understanding (some twisted part of me thinks, “I guess I had this coming”). In the session, when she said that, I just stared at her, speechless. She was crying as she said it. She explained that in 2002, when she was still deeply hurt and I was busy trying to fix everything, she reconnected with an old college friend of hers (I’ll call him “D”). It started innocently—they met at a work conference, got coffee to catch up, and she ended up pouring her heart out to him about what I had done. He was very sympathetic, and they continued talking afterward via email and phone. A few months later, in a period of loneliness and emotional turmoil, she slept with him. It happened twice within about a month, according to her. After that, she felt horribly guilty and cut it off. She said she never told me because, by then, we were actually doing better—this was around the time I thought we were turning the corner (which now guts me to realize)—and she didn’t want to destroy the progress we had made. D moved away shortly after for a new job, and she never saw him in person again. They kept in light touch by email for a year or two (which I had no clue about), but eventually fell completely out of contact.
I was in shock hearing all this. I felt the blood pounding in my ears. My initial reaction was a flash of white-hot anger unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time. Through gritted teeth I said, “You stood there and acted all high-and-mighty for 25 years, and you did the SAME damn thing?” She was sobbing and said she was sorry, that she’s been carrying immense guilt and shame, that she almost told me so many times but was too afraid. She said it wasn’t done out of revenge, but out of pain and brokenness (her word). She said she hated herself for it and felt like a hypocrite every time I apologized for my affair while not knowing she had her own secret guilt.
The therapist intervened to keep things from exploding completely. He asked me to express what I was feeling without attacking. I unloaded: I said I felt utterly betrayed again, that now I had to question the narrative of our entire reconciliation 20 years ago. I asked her, “Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you planning to live with that lie forever, letting me carry all the guilt alone?” Mary said she truly thought telling me would do more harm than good—especially as years passed. She thought it would be selfish to tell me just to ease her conscience, and that since it was long over and we had built a stable life, why blow it up. She said, “I was too much of a coward to tell you. I chose the cowardly way, which was to bury it and try to be a good wife to you to make up for it silently.”
I stood up and said I needed a break. The therapist let me step out. I paced the hallway of the office building, just trying to breathe. Mary eventually came out and approached me carefully. I could see how broken she looked—like she thought I might just walk away right then. She softly said, “I know you probably hate me now. I’m so sorry.” Then she actually knelt down on the floor and hugged my legs. I’ve never seen her like that; it was like desperation and remorse all in one.
I immediately pulled her up because I couldn’t stand to see her like that, and we ended up holding each other, both crying. I told her, “I don’t hate you. I’m furious and hurt, but I don’t hate you. How can I? I of all people… I have no right.”
We eventually went back into the therapist’s office and processed it a bit more. He mostly urged us to save deeper discussions for later since we were both too emotional right then. The shock of that confession still hasn’t worn off as I write this. I feel numb and overwhelmed. In a way, her “second betrayal” puts us on equal footing in terms of having hurt each other terribly, but it also means our marriage vows were broken by both of us, and both of us hid things. It’s like everything we thought we rebuilt was partly built on lies. And yet… weirdly, I also feel a grim sense of relief, like the scales have balanced. Part of me thinks, “Okay, so I wasn’t the only one who messed up like that.” It doesn’t make it right, but it means neither of us can sit on a high horse. There are two people in this marriage who screwed up big time.
Where do we go from here? I honestly don’t know. A few days ago, before I knew about her affair, I was cautiously optimistic that with therapy and open communication, we might get through the issue of the secret money. But this new information… it’s a game changer. Yet, strangely, it also kind of resets things—we’re both the betrayer and the betrayed now. In a dark way, it’s almost like a twisted clean slate.
I haven’t thought seriously about divorce until now, but I’d be lying if I said it’s not on my mind after this latest revelation. This might simply be too much to overcome. On the other hand, some weird logic in my brain says: You stayed after what he did. He stayed without even knowing what you did. Maybe now that everything’s out, you can actually truly forgive each other. I’m not sure what forgiveness between us looks like after all this, but I know that if we choose to stay together, it cannot be with any more secrets or imbalance. It would have to be a completely new chapter of total honesty.
One concrete step we’ve taken: we’re going to see a financial counselor (at our therapist’s recommendation) to figure out what to do about that $600k and our finances going forward, whether we stay married or not. We agreed that transparency and fairness with money is a must now. If we work things out, that money needs to be part of our joint plan or at least openly acknowledged. If we separate, well… we’ll have to deal with that if it comes to it.
For now, I’m taking it day by day. Some moments I feel weirdly calm, like a resigned acceptance of the mess and a determination to fix what can be fixed. Other moments I’m a wreck, grieving the marriage I thought we had. I really appreciate the continued support from everyone here—it’s helped me not feel so alone during some very dark moments.
I will update again once we have a clearer sense of our direction. Right now, it could go either way: reconciliation or splitting up. We genuinely love each other—that I do know. But sometimes love isn’t enough… or is it? I guess we’ll find out.
UPDATE (3 months later): I wanted to come back and provide a final update, as so many of you have followed our story and offered support. It’s been about three months since my last update, and these have been some of the most challenging — yet ultimately hopeful — months of my life.
The headline is: we are still together and actively working on our marriage. After the avalanche of revelations (the secret fund, my wife’s past affair), we ended up at a crossroads. We took time to individually soul-search (with the help of both individual therapy and our joint sessions). In the end, neither of us could imagine life without the other, despite everything. It might sound strange given all the hurt, but when we stood on the edge of truly separating, both of us stepped back and said, “No, not yet. We’re not done fighting for this.”
It hasn’t been easy. We continue to go to couples therapy weekly. We also each see individual therapists to work on our personal issues (my lingering guilt and trust issues, her anxiety and conflict-avoidance, etc.). Communication between us has opened up in a way it never was before. It’s painful, but we’re finally talking about things we avoided for decades. We’re learning how to discuss hard topics without shutting down or exploding. For example, we talked more about her affair in a calmer moment—I expressed how deeply it hurt that she hid it, and she listened and held me as I cried. She told me more about her state of mind back then—not to excuse it, but to help me understand it wasn’t because I was lacking, but because she was in profound pain. I’ve had to do the same, re-examining my affair and answering her lingering questions (yes, even 25 years later she still had unanswered questions, which I’ve tried to address openly).
One significant change: total financial transparency now. We met with the financial counselor and literally laid out all our accounts, assets, and debts on the table. It was awkward (especially for my wife, having to admit to a third party how she’d stashed away money), but also necessary. We decided together what to do with the $600k account. We chose to fold it into our joint retirement planning. We set up a trust that we both oversee, which includes that money along with our other savings, intended for both of our futures (and eventually for our kids to inherit). This was a HUGE step for Mary—essentially, she relinquished sole control of that safety net and made it part of “our” money. I know that was scary for her, and I respect how hard it was. At the same time, it gave me a lot of reassurance that she is truly committing wholeheartedly now, no more one-foot-out-the-door.
We also updated our wills and legal documents together to reflect our new agreements and to ensure transparency. Funnily enough, those meetings with lawyers—something that could have been very tense—turned out to be oddly healing. We approached it not as adversaries dividing assets, but as partners cautiously rebuilding trust. We even put in writing an agreement to full financial openness going forward. It might sound unnecessary, but after what we went through, it felt right to formally promise that neither of us will hide money (or anything significant) from the other again.
Emotionally, how are we doing? It’s a mixed bag, but overall much better. We’ve had some really good days where we feel almost normal—cooking together, laughing at a silly show, playing with our grandbaby without this heavy cloud over us. Those moments give me hope that we can find a new normal that isn’t defined by pain. We’ve also had some hard days: I’ve had nights where I jolted awake from a nightmare of her leaving, and she’s had moments where she suddenly starts crying because a memory triggers guilt or hurt. The difference now is that we turn to each other in those moments. We’ve been comforting each other through the pain we both caused. It’s ironic and heartbreaking and beautiful all at once—being each other’s source of comfort and pain. But it feels like we’re truly on the same side now, facing the problems together instead of each of us guarding our own hurt.
Our children have been very supportive. We had that family dinner with both of them as promised. It was a little tense at first, but eventually it felt like any other family gathering with jokes and conversation, albeit with a new layer of honesty. I pulled my son aside after dinner and apologized again for the shock of learning about my infidelity. He’s a man now, a new father himself, and he said, “Dad, I don’t condone what you did, but I see how hard you’ve worked to make it right. And Mom too. You two are teaching me that marriage is complicated, but also what commitment really means.” I nearly cried hearing that. My daughter has spent a lot of time with her mom lately—maybe ensuring she’s okay. I suspect she still feels some protectiveness toward her mom (and maybe some residual anger at me), but overall she’s kind to both of us and just wants us to be happy. I think as she sees us genuinely healing, she’ll fully relax.
So, why are we staying together after all this? We asked ourselves that, frankly. Here’s what we came up with (and discussed at length):
- We still love each other deeply. Not the naive, head-over-heels love of our 20s, but a mature, tested love. We’ve seen the worst of each other and, oddly, that’s made us appreciate the best in each other more.
- We have 35 years of shared life—memories, children and now a grandchild, a whole history. That’s not something either of us wanted to walk away from unless absolutely necessary. If there was any chance to save our marriage, we both wanted to try.
- Neither of us is under any illusion that trust will magically restore itself. But we both have a genuine desire to try to rebuild it. Both of us being fully committed to that is crucial—if one of us wasn’t, this wouldn’t work. But we are both all-in now.
- Practically speaking, at 61 and 59, starting over in the relationship world is daunting. That’s not the main reason we’re staying, but it’s certainly a factor we acknowledged. However, we didn’t want to stay together just from fear of change—we needed it to be an active choice because we want to be together, not just because we don’t want to be alone. In fact, we even separated for a short time to see how it felt, and both of us realized life was worse without each other.
Is everything forgiven and forgotten now? No, definitely not. Forgiveness is happening gradually, in small doses. I believe I’ve forgiven my wife for the secrecy and even for her affair, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel pain or occasional anger when I think about it. She says she’s forgiven me for mine—after all, she stayed—but I know she still has moments where the old wound aches, especially now that we’ve dug it all back up. We both have scars. The counselor said something that resonated: “You two are essentially mourning the marriage you thought you had. The old marriage is dead. But that doesn’t mean you can’t build a new one from the pieces.” That’s exactly how it feels. The old marriage—the one where I thought she had fully forgiven me and she thought I’d never hurt her again—is gone. What we have now is something different: a bit messier, more honest, and in some ways stronger because we’re no longer pretending everything is fine.
We’ve established some new practices to maintain trust. For one, we have a weekly check-in (literally on the calendar) where we talk about how we’re feeling about us, and we review finances together so nothing is hidden. It felt awkward at first (“marriage meeting” sounds so clinical), but it’s been helping. We also prioritize spending quality time together without heavy discussions—like a date night—so we remember how to enjoy each other’s company.
Here’s what I do know: Right now, being together feels right for us. It might not make sense to everyone, and that’s okay. It’s messy and complicated, but it’s our life. We’re choosing to see if we can write a better ending to our story than the tragedy it almost turned into.
Only time will tell if this ultimately works out. I’m cautiously optimistic. We’ve been through hell and back and are still standing side by side, for better or worse. If nothing else, this whole ordeal has taught me humility, patience, and the importance of brutally honest communication. It’s taught Mary some things too—she’s opened up to me in ways I never imagined, and I feel like I’m finally truly getting to know her deepest feelings, and she me. It’s strange to say, but we’re almost closer now, in a raw and real way, than we have been in years.
I want to end this by saying thank you. If you read through this entire saga, thank you for listening. Writing it all out and reading your comments has been incredibly cathartic. Many of you gave advice that directly influenced our path (like pushing us toward counseling and honesty with our kids).
So, yeah… we’re going to be okay, whatever “okay” ends up looking like. It’s not a fairy tale happy ending. It’s more like a hard-won peace treaty between two battle-weary souls who still find comfort and love in each other’s presence. We’re taking it day by day, and today, we’re together.
Is staying the courageous choice or the cowardly one? Is it strength to forgive, or weakness to not walk away? I’ve asked myself that over and over. I don’t have a definitive answer. Maybe it’s a little of both. Or maybe, when you’ve built a life with someone and you still love each other, those labels don’t really matter. What matters is that both people want to move forward and try to find happiness again, together.
For now, that’s what we’re doing. Wish us luck.