I love my husband of ten years — but I’m having the most electric affair of my life… with another woman, and I don’t know how to stop.

I love my husband of ten years — but I’m having the most electric affair of my life… with another woman, and I don’t know how to stop.

I never imagined I would be capable of writing these words, yet here I am, pouring my darkest secret onto the internet because I have nowhere else to turn. I feel like the worst person alive. My heart is pounding as I type, and I’m shaking with guilt and fear. This is a throwaway account because I can’t have this tied back to me; I just need to confess. I need someone—anyone—to hear what I can’t say out loud to the people in my life. Even if you judge me (I know many will, and should), please understand I’m not proud of this. I’m a 37-year-old woman who loves her 39-year-old husband more than anything… and yet I’ve been unfaithful to him with someone I never expected. I’ve been having an affair for the past several months with another woman, a 35-year-old named “Riley” (not her real name), who also happens to be my son’s soccer coach. I’m so ashamed and conflicted. I love my husband Evan (again, fake name for privacy) dearly—he’s been my partner and best friend for over a decade—but what I have with Riley is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s intense, passionate, consuming… electric. And I have no idea how to stop it without destroying myself and everyone I care about.

Some Background: I’ve been with my husband for twelve years, married for ten. We have a beautiful seven-year-old son together—he’s the light of our lives. From the outside, our life looks picture-perfect: we live in a comfortable home in a nice neighborhood, we both have decent jobs (I work part-time from home in marketing; Evan is an accountant), and we have a sweet, funny kid who’s into sports and doing well in school. Evan is a good man and a great father. He packs our son’s lunches in adorable little bento boxes with notes inside, he remembers my birthday every year without fail (usually something thoughtful like that necklace with our son’s birthstone he gave me last year), and he rubs my shoulders when I’m stressed. He’s steady and kind, the sort of man you can rely on. I know I’m lucky to have him—which makes this all so much harder.

If you met me a year ago, you’d have thought I was a content, happily married wife and mom. And I was, mostly. I never planned to cheat, never thought I’d be “that person.” I’ve always been a rule-follower, the friend who gives others advice about their relationship problems. I used to silently judge cheaters, to be honest. How could someone betray the person they love, risk their family for an affair? Well, now I understand how someone can be both in love with their spouse and yet drawn into something forbidden with someone else. It’s a paradox I wouldn’t believe if I weren’t living it. Part of me still feels this must be happening to someone else. I sometimes look in the mirror and don’t recognize the woman staring back—flushed cheeks, guilty eyes, a scarf wrapped a bit too tightly to hide a suspicious mark on her neck (more on that later). That woman is me, and I’m the one who crossed lines I swore I never would.

To answer the inevitable question: No, I never cheated or even thought about it before this. I’ve been loyal to Evan since day one. I’ve never even had a serious crush on anyone else during our marriage. Sure, I might have found a celebrity attractive or noticed if someone was cute, I’m human—but I never considered acting on anything. And certainly not with a woman. That’s another piece of this: I always thought I was straight. I identified as straight my whole life. I’ve only dated men (my husband being the only one since my mid-20s). I never fantasized about women, never experimented in college, nothing. If you told me a year ago that I’d be passionately kissing a female soccer coach in the front seat of her car on a Tuesday night, or trembling under her hands in a cheap motel at lunchtime, I would have laughed and told you you had the wrong person. Yet, here we are. I guess this means I’m bisexual (or maybe sexuality is more fluid than I realized). I still don’t fully know what to label myself, and maybe that’s not important right now. What’s important is that I somehow allowed myself to break my vows and risk everything. And I did it with someone I never saw coming.

So how did this happen? How does a boring, PTA-attending, mostly happily-married mom end up in an affair with another woman? I’ve been asking myself that over and over. I think I need to start at the beginning—both to make sense of it for anyone reading, and maybe to make sense of it for myself.

It all started earlier this year, back in late spring. Our son (“Jake” for this story) plays on a little kids’ soccer team in our town’s youth league. He’s a bundle of energy, and we wanted him to have an outlet (plus learn teamwork, all that good stuff). He’s been in the league for a couple of years, and this season they got a new head coach: a woman we’ll call Riley. Usually the coaches are volunteer parents, mostly dads, sometimes moms. Riley isn’t a parent on the team; she actually works for the community sports association. She played college soccer, I heard, and now coaches youth teams as part of her job. The first time I saw her was at the spring season kickoff meeting for parents and kids. She introduced herself to all of us with this confident, warm smile. She wore athletic shorts and a T-shirt with our team’s logo, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. I remember noticing how fit she looked—tan, toned legs, the kind of person who probably runs 5 miles for fun in the mornings. She didn’t look like most of the suburban moms (or dads) who usually coach. Not that it mattered; I was just glad someone enthusiastic was taking on the job.

I didn’t think much of her beyond “She seems nice and great with the kids” at first. I really didn’t. I was usually chasing my son around or chatting with the other parents. My husband often came to weekend games, but he works late on weekdays during tax season (again, accountant life), so I handled most of the weekday practices. That meant I saw Riley a couple times a week regularly. At first our interactions were nothing out of the ordinary—just parent-coach small talk. I’d arrive at the field, wave hello. She’d be in the thick of a bunch of six- and seven-year-olds, blowing a whistle, high-fiving them, tying their loose shoelaces. She had this easy way with the kids—firm but fun. The kids adored her, Jake included. After practice, sometimes she’d gather all the parents for quick announcements (“Game’s at 9 AM Saturday, please arrive 15 minutes early,” that sort of thing). Her voice was confident, carrying across the field. I liked her style—she was direct but also cracked jokes, making everyone laugh.

I remember one evening in particular, maybe the second week of practice. I was late to pick up Jake because I got stuck at the grocery store. By the time I arrived at the field, all the other kids were gone except my son, who was sitting with Coach Riley on the grass, going over some soccer cards (she’d given each kid a collectible soccer trading card for fun). I jogged over, apologizing for being late. Riley looked up and flashed that smile—god, that smile, I can picture it so clearly even now. “No worries!” she said, waving off my apology. “Jake was just teaching me about Pokémon. Apparently I’ve been missing out,” she laughed. My son was completely at ease with her, chattering about his cards. I was slightly out of breath from hurrying, a bit flustered, and probably looking frazzled. She stood up and I noticed she was about my height, maybe a touch taller. She had bright green eyes and a spray of freckles. She looked my age or a bit younger (I later learned she was 35).

We chatted for a minute as I collected my son’s things. I thanked her for waiting with him. She said, “Hey, it’s part of the job. And it’s nice to hang with this little dude. He’s got a great kick for a seven-year-old!” That made me proud, of course. Then she asked if I’d thought about signing him up for the summer soccer camp she was running. I admitted I hadn’t heard about it yet. She then walked with me to my car, talking about the camp, and as we chatted I found myself relaxing. She had this way of making you feel like you’d known her longer than just a couple weeks. We discovered that we both grew up in the area, and even went to the same state college (though we never crossed paths there as it’s a big school and I think she was a couple years behind me). By the time I buckled Jake into the car and we were ready to leave, I felt like I’d made a new friend, at least casually. She said goodbye with a friendly “See you next practice, Anna!” — using my first name, which took me aback for a second (most of the coaches just call me “Jake’s mom”). But I liked it, it felt respectful, like she saw me as an individual, not just somebody’s mom. I remember I was smiling on the drive home, thinking how nice it was to connect with another adult like that, however briefly. At the time I chalked it up to me feeling a bit isolated; working from home and parenting can shrink your social world. I didn’t have many close friends nearby (my college friends are scattered, and we only recently moved to this town a couple years ago). So having a friendly chat with someone cool felt good.

I didn’t think too much more of it, but I did mention to my husband that night, “Hey, Jake’s coach is really awesome. She waited with him when I was late and he really likes her.” Evan, being the sweet guy he is, teased, “Uh oh, should I be jealous that you’re crushing on the coach?” with a grin. (Oh the irony in hindsight…). We both laughed it off. I said something like, “No, she’s just really great with the kids.” There was zero inkling then of what would happen. Zero.

Over the next month, I continued to see Riley at practices and games. Sometimes we’d chat briefly – about Jake’s progress, about the team, or just casual stuff like the weather, weekend plans, etc. Each interaction was pleasant, normal. But I found myself looking forward to seeing her, more than I expected. You know that little spark of excitement when you meet someone new and interesting, even platonically? I felt that. I’d arrive at practice scanning for her, feeling oddly pleased when she’d wave and smile at me. I told myself I just had a friend crush – like when you meet a cool person and want to be their friend. I thought, “She’s just a really nice person, and we get along. Nothing wrong with that.”

Around this time, I learned a bit more about her. Another mom on the team, who’d chatted with Riley, told me Coach Riley wasn’t married. In fact, she’d recently moved back to our state from the West Coast after a breakup. The mom sort of whispered this, as if it were gossip, saying something like, “I think her ex was a woman. She mentioned a girlfriend once. So, you know…” and she shrugged. It didn’t matter to me, of course; she could be gay, straight, bi, whatever – she was just Jake’s coach. I remember actually feeling a pang of sympathy when I heard she’d gone through a breakup. Breakups suck, and moving across the country after one must have been hard. Part of me wanted to somehow let her know I understood a bit of heartbreak (not from my marriage, but I had tough breakups in my early 20s before I met Evan). But that would have been weird to bring up out of the blue. So I didn’t.

However, that info did plant a small seed in my mind – the first tiny realization that Riley might be attracted to women. I swear I wasn’t thinking about her “that way” yet, but knowing she might be gay or bisexual made me ever-so-slightly more aware of her in a different way. Like, I’d never even considered if she was pretty or not before; she was just Coach Riley, a friendly presence. But after hearing that, I one day caught myself noticing the way her athletic shirt hugged her lean muscles, or how her smile lit up her whole face, and I had this fleeting thought: If I were into women, I could see myself being attracted to someone like her. I almost immediately brushed that thought away, feeling a bit embarrassed for even thinking it. It felt…inappropriate? I was a straight married woman, after all. Random fleeting thoughts happen, I figured, and it meant nothing. Just me acknowledging she was objectively good-looking.

I didn’t dwell on it. At least, not consciously.

The next significant step came when Riley and I actually spent time together outside of the soccer field. It was mid-season, and our team was doing a weekend fundraising car wash (typical youth sports stuff). Parents and kids were volunteering in shifts. I had signed up to help for the afternoon slot, thinking it’d be me, some other parents, and a gaggle of kids with sponges and hoses. Turns out the other parents on my shift had conflicts, so it ended up just being me and Coach Riley managing about ten first-graders splashing around trying to wash cars. It was chaotic and hilarious. By the end, we were both soaked (kids + hoses = water fight). I remember squealing when a rogue spray of cold water hit my back, and Riley ran over laughing, trying to shield me with a towel like a gallant rescuer, which just made me laugh too. We were like two big kids corralling smaller kids. In the midst of all this, we actually worked well as a team, and we made over $200 for the team’s equipment fund.

After the car wash wrapped up and all the kids were picked up by their parents, it was just me and Riley left cleaning up the buckets and supplies. The afternoon sun was beating down, we were damp and tired. Riley stretched her arms (I couldn’t help notice her toned stomach as her shirt lifted a bit—again a quick thought I quickly ignored). She suggested, “I’m gonna grab a smoothie from that place across the street. Want to come? My treat, since you saved me from being the lone adult in charge today.”

I hesitated for a second. I didn’t have anywhere I needed to be immediately (Evan was home watching Jake). It was a Saturday late afternoon and he knew I was volunteering, so coming home a bit later with a smoothie wouldn’t be odd. I found myself saying yes.

We walked over to the smoothie shop, still in our damp athletic clothes. We must have looked a sight: two women in soccer tees, hair messy from the earlier water fight. I actually had a streak of dirt on my cheek from one of the kids smudging me, which Riley pointed out with a laugh as we waited in line. She reached over instinctively and wiped it off with her thumb, an almost motherly or friendly gesture. The touch of her fingers on my cheek gave me a little jolt – which I ignored, again. (That jolt, in hindsight, was a spark, but I was still in denial that there was any real chemistry happening.)

We got our smoothies and sat in a corner booth. What I thought would be a quick, casual chat turned into a two-hour conversation. We talked about everything: how she ended up coaching (she joked that wrangling kids was easier than dealing with adults in her old office job), how I decided to work part-time to be around more for my son, her favorite bands, my favorite books… it flowed so easily. It astonished me how much we had in common in terms of interests and sensibilities. For instance, we discovered we both love old 90s sitcoms; at one point I referenced a silly line from Friends and she practically choked on her smoothie laughing because she was about to make the same reference. It felt like a scene out of a movie—two people clicking on a level that’s rare.

I also learned more personal things: she had indeed moved back from California after a bad breakup. She’d been in a serious relationship with a woman for 5 years that ended when her ex cheated on her. (The irony of that is not lost on me now – life is cruelly weird sometimes). She said after that, she needed a change of scenery, so she came back home to start fresh, taking this coaching position while figuring out her next step. She admitted she sometimes felt a bit lonely in our town, since her old school friends had moved or were busy with their own families. I found myself really empathizing with her loneliness. I confessed that I too often felt a bit alone or at least isolated—working from home, having moved here only recently, etc. Even though I had Evan and my son, I missed having close female friends nearby. As I said this, Riley gave me a thoughtful look and said, “Well, maybe we found each other at a good time then. I could use a new friend, and it sounds like you could too.” That comment made me warm inside. Yes, friend, I told myself. This was a budding friendship, and that’s a lovely thing.

We exchanged phone numbers before parting ways. It felt completely natural – we even framed it as “we should trade numbers in case I need extra help with the team again, or if you ever need anything when I’m with Jake at practice,” etc. But both of us knew it was also because we enjoyed talking and wanted to hang out again. I remember driving home with a goofy smile, feeling that buzz you get when you meet someone you just click with. I hadn’t felt that in a long time, outside of my relationship with my husband. As we get older, making new friends that genuinely excite you is kind of rare, so I was basking in it. Again: at this stage I still compartmentalized it as friendship. A really awesome new friend who happened to be female and gay/bi, yes, but a friend.

For a few weeks, that’s truly what it was. We texted on and off — at first about soccer logistics (she’d ask me to send reminder emails to other parents since I’d offered to help manage team communications), or I’d ask her how I could volunteer for the upcoming tournament. But soon the texts casually drifted to more personal chatter. She’d send a funny meme about working with kids, or I’d send her a photo of the ridiculous amount of laundry I had to do after the muddy soccer game, joking that even the washing machine was begging for mercy. We fell into a pattern of exchanging little jokes or updates every couple of days. It was innocent and it made me happy. If my phone dinged and I saw it was her, I’d get a small flutter of excitement. I told myself it was just that feeling when you have a friend crush and you’re basically in the giddy stage of friendship honeymoon.

One afternoon, she texted me out of the blue: “I’m at the park jogging and just saw the most insane thing: a squirrel carrying an entire slice of pizza up a tree. Day = made.” She attached a photo, blurry but indeed showing a squirrel with a floppy slice of pizza. I laughed out loud. It felt natural to share those kinds of random moments with her. And I realized she didn’t really have someone else to share it with; she wasn’t close to her work colleagues, and her family was a couple hours away. I was becoming that person for her, and she for me.

I started mentioning Riley at home more, like telling my husband how funny she was or sharing the squirrel story. Each time I brought her up, Evan reacted positively, even teasing me good-naturedly like, “You really admire Coach Riley, huh?” I’d blush and say, “Well, she’s just neat. You’d like her too.” And genuinely, I believed that — they’d probably get along in another context. There was zero jealousy or suspicion from him because why would there be? I’m sure it never crossed his mind that his straight-laced, straight wife would ever be interested in another woman. Frankly, it never crossed my mind either… until it did.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when my feelings started to shift into something more than friendship. It was a gradual blurring of lines that, in hindsight, I failed to check or maybe didn’t want to examine too closely. There was a day, about three months ago, that stands out as a major turning point. Practice had been canceled last minute because of a storm, but I didn’t get the text in time and showed up at the soccer field with Jake, only to find it empty. I groaned at my phone for failing to deliver the message earlier, but as I was about to head back, I saw Riley’s car pulling up. She had come to the field to make sure any parents who missed the notification got the message so no kid was left waiting in the rain. I waved, rolling down my window. She jogged over (even jogging through puddles, she looked effortlessly cool, while I was in mom-mode with old jeans and a sweatshirt).

She leaned in my car window, rain dripping from her ponytail, and said, “Hey! You didn’t get the cancel notice?” I said I hadn’t, but no worries. By now big raindrops were pelting down. She glanced at Jake in the backseat (he was already distracted on his tablet, unbothered). Then she said, “I was about to grab a coffee at the place around the corner, mind if I steal you for a bit since you’re already out? I mean, if you have time.” I really didn’t have any pressing plans for the next hour, and Evan wasn’t expecting me home immediately since practice was supposed to run for a while. Jake was content with his game in the car. It was kind of a no-brainer and genuinely just a friendly coffee invitation. I said sure, why not.

We ended up at a cozy little coffee shop, one of those hole-in-the-wall places with homemade muffins and local art on the walls. The rain was pouring outside, making the windows foggy. I told Jake he could bring his tablet in and sit at the table with us (screen time exception, whatever, I needed some adult time and he was happy). Riley and I got our coffees (and milk for Jake, plus a cookie that Riley sneakily paid for, spoiling him). We sat by the window, watching the storm. It was the first time we’d hung out just on a whim like that, and something about the rain and warm coffee made it feel intimate, like a little bubble in time.

Our conversation turned more personal than ever, maybe because the setting invited confidences. We talked about our lives in a deeper way—what we wanted, what we regretted. I opened up about how, even though I love being a mom and I love my husband, sometimes I feel like I lost a piece of myself over the years. I used to paint and do art; I hadn’t touched my art supplies in years because there was always something more pressing. I confessed quietly that sometimes I worry I’m just gliding through a comfortable but unremarkable life, and it scares me that I’ll wake up one day and wonder where I went. It was more honesty than I’d shared with anyone in a long time. Not that I couldn’t tell Evan those things—he is supportive—but I guess I felt he wouldn’t fully get it, since he seemed mostly content with how things were.

Riley listened intently, her green eyes on mine. She nodded and said she understood, more than I might think. She said something like, “After my breakup, I had a similar thought. I had been so-and-so’s girlfriend for years, tailoring my life around hers. When it ended I realized I didn’t even know who I was on my own anymore. Moving here, starting fresh, it was me trying to rediscover me.” She gave a small, wry smile. “It’s still a work in progress.”

In that moment, I felt such a surge of connection to her. We were different in our circumstances, but emotionally we resonated. I remember this urge to reach out and touch her hand, to comfort her, but I held back. Still, something must have shown in my face because she suddenly reached over and squeezed my hand, gently, in a gesture of understanding and comfort. “We’ll figure ourselves out,” she said softly. Her hand was warm on mine. It lasted maybe two seconds, but my heart skipped. I managed a smile and squeezed back a little, then we both withdrew, both a bit shy suddenly.

My son was oblivious, headphones on playing his game, so this felt oddly private even with him there. I felt a flutter in my stomach I hadn’t felt in a long time—like a spark, the kind you get when someone attractive catches your interest, or when you’re about to have a first kiss. That should have been a big red flag to me. But I rationalized it away immediately: I’m just touched by the moment. That was a kind, human connection. I convinced myself it was nothing more than that. After all, nothing inappropriate happened. Friends can hold hands briefly and share a meaningful moment, right?

We finished our coffee, the rain lightened up, and we parted ways. But that night, I could not stop thinking about how her hand felt on mine, and how my skin tingled afterward. I was lying in bed next to my husband (who was blissfully asleep), and I stared at the ceiling replaying that coffee shop conversation over and over. There was a part of me—a small voice—saying Anna, be careful. You’re developing feelings for her. I remember almost shaking my head in the dark and saying to myself, No, no, that’s ridiculous. But was it? I had to face it: I felt drawn to Riley in a way that was more than platonic. It terrified me. I didn’t sleep much that night.

In the days that followed, I tried to put a bit of distance. I still went to practices, of course, but I avoided hanging around too long after. If she texted something funny, I’d reply but kept it short, not encouraging a prolonged back-and-forth like before. I hoped whatever weird feelings I was having would just recede if I kept proper boundaries. After all, I loved my husband and had a good life. I wasn’t about to mess that up. Just cool off, I told myself.

One evening, about a week later, Evan noticed I was a bit preoccupied. I think I was washing dishes, lost in thought, and jumped when he touched my shoulder. He asked if I was doing okay. I plastered on my best normal smile and said I was fine, just stressed about a work project. He nodded and, being the sweetheart he is, he later ran me a bubble bath to help me relax. I sat in that bath feeling like a fraud, because I wasn’t fine and it wasn’t work stress – it was guilt. Guilt that I had almost emotionally cheated. Guilt that I even considered Riley in any kind of romantic way.

I decided then that I needed to cut back contact with her outside of soccer. Polite and friendly in person at the field, sure, I couldn’t avoid that without it being weird. But no more coffee chats or random texting like we were besties. It just felt like playing with fire. I resolved to refocus on my marriage and push Riley to the periphery of my mind.

For a while, this worked. A couple weeks went by where our interactions were minimal. The soccer season was winding down. I kept things polite but somewhat distant. I told her I was busy with stuff when she suggested getting together with the kids for a playdate (she had mentioned she babysits her young niece sometimes and maybe we could do a park hang— I dodged it saying my schedule was nuts). I could tell she was a bit puzzled by my sudden coolness. Our texting dropped to almost nothing except functional team stuff. It sucked because a part of me missed her terribly—missed laughing at her jokes, missed the way she made me feel interesting and seen. But I channeled that into appreciating my husband. I even initiated sex with him one night, as if to prove to myself that everything was okay and I was not pining for someone else. The sex was… fine. Familiar. Comfortable. We knew each other so well; there was warmth and love, but I’d be lying if I said there was fire. There hadn’t been for a while, to be honest. We were usually both tired from work and parenting, and it had just become routine. But that night I tried to ignite some spark, pretending it was enough. When I closed my eyes though, fleetingly I imagined what it would be like to be touched by her instead, and that thought alone made my body respond more intensely than anything my husband was actually doing. That realization made me feel awful. I buried my face in Evan’s shoulder afterward and silently cried a couple tears of guilt (thankfully he didn’t notice in the dark). What kind of person imagines someone else while being with their spouse? I felt like a cheater already, even though physically I hadn’t done anything at that point.

My resolve to stay away from Riley was tested one evening after the last game of the season. The kids had a mini party at the field with juice boxes and cupcakes. Parents were thanking Riley for coaching. Evan had managed to come to that game, and it was the first time he met Riley, albeit very briefly in the group. I remember watching them shake hands: my husband, oblivious to everything, cheerfully saying, “Thanks for putting up with our kid, Coach!” and Riley smiling, meeting his eyes, saying, “He’s a great kid, it was my pleasure.” I felt like I was in a surreal alternate reality, watching the two worlds collide without them knowing. I wondered if Riley looked at him and thought “that’s the man she’s married to, the one I’ve heard about.” Did she sense anything had been weird with me lately? If she did, she didn’t show it.

After the mini party, as dusk settled, families drifted off. Evan took Jake to the car, strapping him in and giving me a minute to finish saying goodbye to the coach and other parents. I purposely busied myself folding up some chairs to avoid too much alone time with Riley. But it ended up just me and her walking back to the parking lot with the last of the equipment. She walked beside me in silence for a bit, then softly said, “Did I do something wrong, Anna?”

That question caught me off guard. “What? No, of course not. Why?” I played dumb, my heart thumping.

She kicked a small pebble as we walked. “I dunno… I feel like you’ve been… distant. I hope I didn’t overstep at any point.” She glanced at me with worry in her eyes. That damned earnest concern almost undid me.

I quickly shook my head. “No, not at all. I’ve just been busy, life gets crazy, you know.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I miss talking to you.” Such a simple, honest statement. I miss talking to you. My defenses nearly crumbled hearing that. I missed her too, so much it hurt.

I forced a smile. “I miss it too. We’ll catch up soon, I promise. Maybe off-season we can, uh, grab another coffee or something.” I was trying to sound casual, but even suggesting coffee again felt like picking at a wound that was just starting to scab.

Riley gave me a faint smile back. “I’d really like that.” We had reached my car by then. My husband was inside with Jake, probably figuring I got caught in conversation (he often teased that I could never leave a party quickly because I chitchat too much).

Riley handed me the bag of soccer balls we were carrying. As I took it, our fingers brushed. It was like an electric shock, honestly. We both noticed; I saw her eyes flicker, and she took a half-step back. There was this tension between us in that moment, unspoken but thick in the air. I should have just said goodbye and left. But I lingered, standing by my car, looking at her in the dimming light.

“I’ll text you,” I murmured, not really sure if I meant it or just saying it to ease the awkwardness.

“Okay,” she replied, her voice equally soft. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead she just nodded and gave a little wave, turning toward her own car parked a few yards away.

I got in the car. My husband smiled and asked if everything was alright. I lied and said, “Yeah, all good. Coach just needed help with the equipment.” As we pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced in the side mirror and saw Riley standing by her car, illuminated by the streetlamp, watching us drive away. My chest ached seeing her small, lonely figure there. I almost told Evan to stop the car, under some impulse to go… do what? I don’t even know. I didn’t, of course. I went home with my family, and Riley drove off in the opposite direction, alone.

A couple of weeks went by after the season ended. No practices meant no built-in excuses to see each other. We texted a couple times: she shared a pic of the team trophy the league gave her and the assistant coach as a thank-you, and I responded with appropriate enthusiasm and a joke. I tried to keep it surface-level. She didn’t push, but there was a sense of formality creeping in that wasn’t there before, and it made me sad.

During this time, life was “normal.” Summer was starting, our son was finishing 1st grade, work was steady, marriage was fine on the surface. Yet I was restless and moody. Evan even remarked that I seemed down, and asked if I was getting sick or something. I just said I was in a funk. How could I explain that I was heartsick over missing someone? It felt like I had cut off a piece of my own heart to stay on the straight and narrow.

I honestly thought maybe the worst was behind me, that maybe the intensity would fade with time apart. And maybe it would have… if things had ended there. But they didn’t.

One evening I got a text from Riley that changed everything. It was a simple message: “Hey. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I value your friendship a lot. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. If not, I understand. Take care, Anna.” Reading that, I felt a rush of guilt and longing. I had been distancing to avoid temptation, but in doing so I’d hurt her feelings. She thought she upset me or that I didn’t want to be friends. The thought of her thinking I didn’t care about her cut me deeply.

I sat on that text for an hour, agonizing over how to respond or whether to respond at all. Meanwhile, my husband was in the living room reading bedtime stories to our son; I could hear them laughing over some silly Dr. Seuss rhyme. It was a lovely domestic moment, and here I was hidden in the bathroom essentially trembling over a text from another woman. I felt like there were two versions of me: the mom and wife who had this normal happy life, and this other me who yearned for something else, something more, and Riley somehow embodied that.

In the end, I couldn’t leave her message unanswered. I cared about her too much to let her feel bad about herself. So I replied, choosing my words carefully: “I’m so sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, this is all me. I’ve been dealing with some confusing feelings and I thought space would help. It’s not because I don’t value you – I do, a lot. I miss talking to you too. Can we meet to talk? I think we should.”

My fingers hovered before hitting send. Was this wise? I could feel the fault lines trembling, knowing I was about to step onto very shaky ground. But I hit send anyway, and instantly felt both dread and relief.

She answered quickly: “Yes. Anytime, anywhere. Just say when.”

We arranged to meet that upcoming weekend. My husband was taking our son on a boys’ camping trip with a friend and his kid – something they’d planned for a while (I had begged off, claiming I wasn’t big on sleeping in tents, which is true). So I was going to have the house to myself for a night. It’s rare I have free time alone, and initially I thought I’d just have a spa-night in or catch up on Netflix. Instead, I found myself planning to see Riley.

The night before our meeting, I barely slept. I knew this was a crossroads. I told myself I was going to just talk to her and clear the air, make sure our friendship was okay. That’s all. But I also knew there was a real possibility things could… escalate if we admitted how we felt. I was in denial and also fully aware at the same time, if that makes any sense at all.

Saturday came. Evan and Jake left in the morning for their camping trip, kissing me goodbye. “Enjoy your quiet me-time, babe,” Evan said cheerfully as he hugged me. I felt like I didn’t deserve that sweetness. As their car pulled away, my heart twisted with guilt. I nearly called the whole thing off right then. I could just text Riley and make an excuse not to meet. Stay home, be faithful, live my life.

But then I thought of her face when she asked if she’d done something wrong, how lonely she looked standing by her car. I thought of how empty I’d felt the past few weeks without her presence. I justified to myself: It’s just a conversation between friends. Talking isn’t cheating. In hindsight, I know I was fooling myself. Emotionally, I think I’d already crossed a line even if I hadn’t admitted it yet. But I grabbed onto any rationalization that would let me see her that day.

We decided to meet at her place because she had adopted a rescue dog recently and needed to let it out. (I suspect both of us also knew being in private might allow for a more honest conversation than at a busy cafe or something – though honesty here was a slippery slope). She lives in a small rental house about 20 minutes from me. I had never been there before. I remember sitting in my car outside her house, hands gripping the steering wheel, telling myself to breathe. The little dog (a terrier mix) was barking in the window. Riley came out to wave me in, wearing casual jeans and a tank top, looking a bit nervous herself.

Inside, the dog sniffed me and decided I was okay after a lick to my hand. We sat on her couch, awkwardly at first. She offered iced tea; I said sure more to have a moment to gather myself as she went to the kitchen. My heart was in my throat. What are you going to say, Anna? I hadn’t actually scripted this out. Was I going to confess that I felt something for her? Or try to downplay it? I honestly didn’t know until the words started coming out.

She returned, handed me a glass, and then just dove right in, her voice gentle: “So… what’s confusing you?” Right to the heart of it. Her directness was one of the things I liked about her, but it also left me nowhere to hide.

I felt heat rush to my face. I sipped the iced tea for courage. Then I just stared down at the glass and said, barely above a whisper, “I’ve been confused… about why I miss you so much. Why I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her set her own glass down. She didn’t speak yet, so I forced myself to continue. My throat was tight. “I— I’ve never had feelings for a woman before. Or… or thought I could. And I’m married. I love my husband. So I didn’t understand why suddenly I was feeling this way.”

There. I’d said it, in a roundabout way: I admitted I had feelings, however confusing, for her. My heart was hammering so loud I thought I might pass out. There was a long pause. Then I felt her hand gently touch my knee. I looked up into her eyes, and she had this kind, almost sad smile.

“I’ve been feeling the same,” she said, quietly. “I tried to ignore it too. You’re married, and I respect that, I do. I never, ever want to screw up someone’s life or relationship…” She took a shaky breath. “But… I can’t help that I’ve fallen for you, Anna.”

My heart skipped a beat and I just exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for weeks (maybe I had). Hearing her say that, it was like something unlocked. Relief, fear, exhilaration all at once. My eyes stung with tears unexpectedly. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted. “I never meant to lead you on or make you think—”

She shook her head, squeezing my knee a little. “No, don’t apologize. This isn’t one-sided. I know it’s not. I just… I didn’t want to push or make you uncomfortable. I was going to let it go if you wanted distance. But when you texted to meet, I thought maybe… maybe you felt it too.”

“I do,” I admitted, voice trembling. “And that’s what scares me. Because I don’t know what to do with it.”

We were both turned toward each other on the couch now, her hand still on my knee, my hand resting on top of hers almost unconsciously. It felt so good to touch her and not pull away this time. My body was reacting in this heightened way—my skin where she touched felt hot, and I was acutely aware of how close we were sitting.

“There’s a lot we could mess up,” I said, voicing the worry in my head. “My marriage… your job, even, if this got weird… I mean, you coach my son.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “I know. The last thing I want is to cause you pain or ruin your family. You love your husband, and I know you love your son. I would never ask you to upend that.”

Her words said one thing, but her eyes… her eyes were swimming with longing that contradicted the idea of never asking.

I felt a tear slip out and I wiped it, trying to get a hold of myself. “Then what are we doing?” I whispered.

She looked down, and for a moment I thought maybe she’d suggest we just stay friends and try to forget all this. But instead, she gently intertwined her fingers with mine, and her voice came out raw and honest: “Maybe just for today… can we drop the consequences and just… be honest about what we want? Even if we don’t act on it. I just need to know, for one moment, that it’s real and I’m not crazy.”

I was fully crying now, silent tears. Because I did want that. I wanted to know what it would be like to hold her, to kiss her, if only once, even if it had to end. The war inside me between desire and duty was raging, but right then desire was winning by a hair.

“I want you,” I confessed, barely more than a breath. “It scares me how much I do. I haven’t felt anything like this in… I don’t even remember when.” That was as honest as I could be. It felt like a betrayal to even say it, but it was the truth.

The next thing I knew, her hands were on either side of my face, and she was kissing me. And I was kissing her back. I don’t even recall who moved first; maybe we both just leaned in. All I know is the moment her lips met mine, the world fell away. It sounds cliché, but I swear I forgot everything — my name, my obligations, my guilt, all of it — for those few seconds. Her lips were soft, tasting slightly of sweet iced tea and something inherently her. I felt a surge of heat through my entire body. I grabbed onto her arms, steadying myself or pulling her closer, maybe both.

We pulled apart for a moment, both breathing a bit shakily. “God…” she murmured, resting her forehead against mine. I opened my eyes and saw that her eyes were closed, a tear had escaped one of them too. The weight of what we were doing hung in the air, but I was in too deep. I didn’t want to stop.

I made a split-second decision that I would later both treasure and regret: I whispered, “Stay with me… just for today.” It was an echo of her plea to drop consequences for now. We both knew what I meant.

She looked at me searchingly. “Are you sure?”

No, I wasn’t sure at all. But another part of me was more sure than it had been about anything in ages. “Yes,” I said, and I actually meant it in that instant.

We didn’t make it off the couch for a long time. The kissing turned intense fast, years of pent-up longing (or so it felt) pouring out. Her hands tangled in my hair, my arms wrapped around her waist. I was shaky and clumsy at first — I’d never been with a woman and had no idea what I was doing beyond basic intuition — but she guided me with gentle touches and quiet gasps that told me I was doing something right.

(I won’t go into graphic detail here — but I also don’t want to gloss over it entirely because it was… it was life-changing for me. So I’ll try to describe it in a way that conveys the intensity without being too explicit.)**

We eventually moved from the couch to her bedroom, partly because her curious dog kept trying to join us on the couch which made us dissolve into nervous giggles. I remember that laugh, how it broke the tension for a moment and we just grinned at each other like, Is this really happening? It was, and we both wanted it, so we continued, shutting the dog out of the bedroom.

Being with Riley physically was like discovering a new color that I never knew existed, a whole new spectrum of feelings. Every touch was softer and yet more electrifying than what I’d known before. With a man, with my husband, intimacy had always been somewhat straightforward, even when passionate. But with her, it was like learning a new dance, one where every step was both familiar (we’re all human, after all) and entirely foreign because it was her – her curves, her softness, her scent (she smelled like fresh rain and a hint of vanilla). I was trembling almost the whole time, partly from nerves but mostly from how overwhelming it was to want someone so much.

She was unbelievably tender with me, constantly checking if I was okay, whispering how beautiful I was. Beautiful. I hadn’t felt beautiful or truly desired in a long time; hearing it from her lips made me nearly cry all over again. I remember at one point, she kissed a spot on my neck and I just shivered head to toe – it was like a lightning bolt. My reaction made her smile against my skin, and I blurted out something like, “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” followed by a rush of apologies, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” (maybe apologizing to the universe, to my husband in my head, I don’t even know). She silenced me with another slow kiss and whispered, “Don’t be sorry. I want this if you do.” And god help me, I did.

Afterward, we lay tangled together in her sheets, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through her curtains. I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, trying to process the fact that I had just slept with a woman who was not my husband. That I had broken my marriage vows in the deepest way. A dark wave of guilt started to well up, but she sensed it — she always seemed to sense what I was feeling — and she pulled me into her arms, resting my head on her chest. I could hear her heartbeat, also rapid.

We didn’t speak for a while. She just stroked my hair and we held each other. I felt tears burning again because I was happy and sad all at once. Happy because being with her felt like being alive in a technicolor way I hadn’t felt in so long. Sad because I knew this couldn’t last, that reality would crash in.

“I wish I’d met you years ago… in another life,” I found myself saying softly. It was a cowardly thing to say maybe, but it was honest. In another life, maybe I’d be free to love her openly and not hurt anyone.

She kissed the top of my head. “I know. But we’re here now.” Her voice was heavy with both contentment and unsaid worry.

We eventually got up as evening approached. I realized I had multiple missed texts from Evan (“We set up camp! Jake caught a tiny fish in the creek! all good here, love you.” and a photo of my grinning son holding a flashlight). Seeing that absolutely gutted me with guilt. Here was my sweet husband sharing our family moments, trusting me, and I was naked in another person’s bedroom recovering from cheating on him. I felt like I might throw up from the emotional whiplash.

Riley noticed my expression as I read the texts. I quickly said, “It’s Evan. They’re having fun.” I must have looked upset, because she rubbed my back soothingly. But that only made the guilt worse—like I was betraying him even in that moment of reading his innocent messages.

“I should go,” I said, starting to gather my clothes. My voice shook.

“Hey,” she said softly, holding my hand to still my movements. “Are you alright?”

I nodded unconvincingly. “I just… I need to think. This is a lot. I— I’m sorry.” I kept saying sorry, feeling it was all I could say though it didn’t begin to cover it.

She looked hurt for a second, but then she nodded in understanding. “It’s okay. I get it.” She started dressing too, eyes avoiding mine for a moment. Once we were clothed and somewhat composed, she walked me to the door. Before I left, she gently tilted my chin up to look at her. My eyes were wet and I think it broke her heart a little to see it.

“I don’t regret today,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “I hope you don’t either.”

I was honest: “I don’t. But I hate that… that I can’t regret it.” I wiped an errant tear. “I feel so awful and also… I feel so much for you.” It was the most roundabout admission of love, but it was true. I couldn’t say the word love—it felt too big, too soon, too dangerous—but perhaps it was already that.

She understood. She leaned in and gave me one last soft kiss on the lips, a bittersweet one, and whispered, “Take the time you need. I’m here.”

I nodded, unable to speak now without sobbing. And then I forced myself to walk out of her door, to drive home to my husband and child as if everything was normal.

That night alone in my house was torture. I scrubbed myself in the shower until my skin was red, as if I could wash away the evidence of what I’d done. But I kept remembering how it felt to be with her, and a part of me didn’t want to wash that away. I was so messed up. I cried a lot—sobbing into a towel so neighbors wouldn’t hear through the walls. I tried to journal (something I hadn’t done in years) to get the swirl out of my head, writing things like “What do I do now? Who am I now?” I wrote, “I love him but I also…” and couldn’t even finish that sentence on paper, because finishing it would make it real that I might love her too.

When my husband and son came back the next day from camping, I threw myself into hugging them. I must have seemed overenthusiastic. My husband joked, “Missed us that much, huh?” and kissed me. I felt like I was going to shatter, standing there with the smell of his familiar aftershave, our son babbling about s’mores, and inside me this secret screaming to get out and also begging to never be found out.

Thus began the double life. Because, yes, as you can guess, that day with Riley was not a one-time thing. We told ourselves it would be, we really did. After I left her house, I told myself I had to cut it off completely now, that I’d had my moment of insanity and needed to stop. For a week or so, I maintained distance again. She checked in with a simple “you okay?” text a day after, and I replied that I was, but needed some time. She didn’t push further and I appreciated that.

I tried to resume normalcy: focusing on family, work, being present. But I was distracted. Evan noticed I was still “in a funk.” I felt distant during sex (which we had maybe once in that period, and I felt so guilty I nearly cried afterward). My mind kept drifting to Riley—how she felt, how she sounded whispering my name, whether she was thinking of me too, whether she was hurting. I missed her so badly it was like an ache in my chest.

The dam broke when I went to the grocery store one afternoon and saw her in one of the aisles by pure chance. It had been maybe two weeks since that day. She was picking out cereal, and she hadn’t noticed me yet. I could have ducked away, avoided contact. But my cart seemed to steer itself toward her. She looked up and saw me and in that instant, the way her face softened and eyes lit up just at seeing me… I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stay away.

We stood there, pretending to chat casually about mundane stuff (how are you, how’s the dog, how’s the kid, blah blah) but our eyes were saying everything that our mouths couldn’t in public. Finally, I managed a whisper, trying to control the tremble in my voice, “I miss you.” Her breath caught and she glanced around (no one was nearby). She responded quietly, “I miss you too. So much.”

I don’t even remember which one of us suggested it, but minutes later we left our half-filled carts at the customer service desk claiming an emergency, and we found ourselves in my car in the parking lot, making out like horny teenagers who couldn’t wait. It was risky and crazy and I’m not proud of it, but at that moment I didn’t care. I just needed her. She needed me. The windows fogged up (a ridiculous cliché, but it really happened) and we only stopped when a security guard doing rounds tapped on the window, thinking maybe something was wrong. We separated, acting like we were just talking intensely (my hair was a mess, pretty sure he knew what was up, but he just asked if everything was okay and left). It was a wake-up call that we were playing with fire in public like that.

After that incident, we set some ground rules to be more careful. We realized this was turning into a full-blown affair, and if we were going to keep at it, we needed to be smart (again, I know how horrible this sounds – I’m cringing as I type it, but it’s what happened). We agreed no public displays of affection, no risky meetups in obvious places. We got burner apps for texting so that if my husband glanced at my phone, he wouldn’t see her name (we disguised it as a generic name from the team parent group). I feel sick remembering that I took these steps, actively creating a web of lies. But at the time, I was in self-preservation and addiction mode: addicted to her, desperate to keep both her and my family.

We met whenever we could, which wasn’t super often, maybe once a week or every two weeks, given our schedules and the need for secrecy. Sometimes it was a long lunch “work meeting” where I’d pretend to have a client, and we’d steal a couple hours at a motel out by the highway (the first time doing that was so awkward – checking in, trying not to look like what we were – but once we were in that room together it was the same rush all over again, and awkwardness vanished in our hunger for each other). Other times it was a quick evening drive where I’d say I was running errands, and we’d park in a quiet area and just talk, hold hands, maybe kiss a little and share takeout in the car. A few times, under the pretense of “a girls’ night” with a fictitious new friend, I went to her house and spent hours just cuddling on the couch, watching a movie in each other’s arms, in addition to the lovemaking. Those nights felt almost normal, like we were a couple without a care in the world, and it was so heartbreakingly lovely that it made returning home to my real life both harder and easier: harder because I hated leaving her, easier because at least I had gotten my fix to carry me through the domestic routine.

Throughout all this, I was keenly aware that I was living a double life, deceiving my husband day in and day out. The guilt came in crushing waves, usually late at night when I was alone in bed (Evan often fell asleep before me). I would lie there, sometimes still smelling a hint of Riley’s perfume on my skin even after showering, and I’d feel like the worst person on earth. I would turn and look at my husband’s peaceful face in the dim light and my chest would squeeze painfully with guilt. He trusted me completely. He had no idea. I’d silently cry, or go to the bathroom and stifle sobs in a towel again. I was splitting myself in two and it was tearing me apart internally.

Yet in the daylight, when the guilt threatened to surface too much, I’d tamp it down by focusing on the next time I’d see her, like an addict craving the next high. Because when I was with Riley, everything felt amazingly right. The more I saw her, the more I felt like we were meant to find each other. We connected not just physically but emotionally on such a deep level. We understood each other’s thoughts often without words. She made me feel strong and beautiful and alive. I can’t emphasize that enough; I felt alive in technicolor when I was with her, whereas my life otherwise felt like a comfortable, monotone existence by comparison. I know that might have been the affair fog talking – affairs feed on that contrast, the secret passion versus the mundane – but it felt real and beyond just lust. I was falling in love with her, if I hadn’t already fallen completely.

At the same time, I still loved my husband. This is what I think many people who haven’t experienced something like this might not get (and I hope most never have to). It is possible, however illogical, to deeply love two people at once in different ways. Evan was my family, my safe place, the father of my child, a wonderful partner in life. I didn’t want to hurt him, ever. I didn’t want to leave him. If anything, I wanted us to last forever, the three of us as a family. But I also had this other profound connection that I didn’t want to lose. I kept trying to mentally reconcile a way to keep both, which obviously is impossible in the long run. But I wasn’t thinking long run; I was living in a series of stolen present moments, willfully ignoring the future.

It couldn’t go on indefinitely, I think we both knew that deep down. The first real sign of strain (other than my private guilt breakdowns) came from Riley’s side a couple months into the affair. We were at the motel one afternoon (classy, I know – the motel became our go-to safe space, as depressing as that sounds because she had a roommate move in to help with rent so her place wasn’t always available, and I obviously couldn’t take her to my home). We had just spent a blissful hour entangled in each other. She was tracing her fingers along my bare back as we lay on the scratchy motel sheets, and I noticed she was quieter than usual, like something on her mind.

I asked her what she was thinking. She hesitated, then said, “Do you ever wish we could just stay like this? And not have to leave?”

I knew what she meant. Not have to go back to real life – her to her work and lonely house, me to my home with my husband. I replied truthfully, “Yes. I wish that all the time.”

She tightened her arm around me. “I hate that I can’t take you out to dinner, or kiss you good morning, or just… be with you whenever. I feel like I’m stealing moments of someone else’s life.” Her voice had a tinge of bitterness.

Her words pierced me. She was essentially stealing moments from someone else’s life – from Evan’s life, in a way, and from the life we might have had if things were different. It was the first time she’d verbalized any resentment about the situation. Usually, she was very careful not to pressure me or make me feel bad; she often said she accepted that any time I gave her was a gift. But here it was, the underlying issue: she wasn’t truly satisfied being the secret other woman, content with motel afternoons and hidden kisses in a car. She wanted more. And honestly, I wanted more too, but I was terrified of what “more” would cost.

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent, my heart heavy. She sighed and sat up, the sheet falling around her in a way that revealed a bruise on her arm. I quickly asked what happened, and she gave a sad half-smile, “Oh, that? That’s just from soccer practice, one of the kids accidentally whacked me with a stick when we were picking up cones.”

The idea of her still coaching kids and potentially seeing my son again in a future season, acting normal around each other, flashed through my mind. How long could we keep this charade if our lives kept intersecting publicly?

As I dressed, the weight of reality crept back in. I had to get home before my son and husband returned from the movie they’d gone to see (which gave me my alibi for being out – I said I was meeting a former coworker for coffee). Before I left that day, Riley grabbed my hands and looked at me with tears in her eyes, a rare moment of her showing such vulnerability. “I don’t want to lose you, Anna. But I also… I don’t know how long I can keep doing this like it is now.”

My throat tightened. “I know,” I whispered. I hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go. “I wish I knew what to do. I don’t want to lose you either.”

It was a poignant, agonizing embrace. She didn’t explicitly say it then, but the implicit question hung in the air: Will you ever leave him? Will you ever choose me openly? And the implicit answer in my silence: I don’t know if I can.

We parted with that unease between us.

After that, things continued but the emotional stakes were getting higher. She hadn’t given me an ultimatum (yet), but I felt it looming. And I was increasingly torn. One day I’d fantasize about what it might be like to come clean, to somehow have a life with Riley—maybe not immediately leaving my marriage, but some future where we could be together without hiding. Other days, I’d be hit with overwhelming panic at that idea: I couldn’t upend my family, break my husband’s heart, disrupt my son’s world. The thought of not tucking my son in every night, of splitting holidays, of Evan’s face if he found out… it made me physically ill. I’d conclude that I had to stop the affair, cut it off entirely, and recommit to my marriage. But then I’d go see Riley “one last time” to end it, and we’d end up in tears and in each other’s arms because we just couldn’t say goodbye. We tried, oh God, we tried a couple of times to end it. It never stuck. The pull was too strong for either of us.

I realize how selfish this all is. I was essentially trying to have my cake and eat it too, and in doing so probably causing more eventual hurt than if I had just made a decision early on. I know some readers will think I’m a horrible person. Trust me, I think that about myself often. Some may have less sympathy because they might think “Well, if you’re that unhappy, just divorce your husband and be with her.” But it wasn’t that simple to me. I wasn’t unhappy with my husband before; I became unhappy with the situation I created. And leaving him when I still loved him and our life felt like cutting off a limb. On the other hand, leaving Riley felt equally impossible because of how deeply I connected with her. I felt damned no matter what.

The breaking point came a few weeks ago. Riley invited me to go with her for a weekend hiking trip. She loves hiking and had found this secluded trail with a cabin to rent. It sounded amazing – two days together with no sneaking around. But of course, I’d need a believable cover story for my family. She said, “Think about it, you deserve a weekend for yourself. He’ll understand if you want a girls’ trip or something.” Maybe he would have – Evan isn’t the controlling type, and I have gone on the occasional girls’ spa day with a coworker friend (though rarely overnight). But I knew that lying for two straight days would be an order of magnitude bigger deception, and if something went wrong, the consequences could be dire. It also felt like crossing another line to actually go away with her overnight; that felt more like “affair in full swing” territory than even the motel afternoons (if that makes sense – more time equals more intimacy, more risk).

I told her I wasn’t sure. She looked so disappointed, and that’s when she finally broke. She said, with tears threatening, “I feel like I’m in love with a person I only get pieces of. I want all of you, Anna, not bits and scraps. I know I can’t have that, not now, maybe never… but I can’t keep living on crumbs. I need more or I need to… I need to figure out how to move on.”

Hearing her say “move on” felt like a punch to my gut. I started crying and apologizing, saying I wished things were different, I was just so confused and scared. She didn’t yell or get angry; she just quietly cried too and said, “I know. I’m confused and scared too. But I also know what I want. And I think you do too, you’re just afraid to admit it.”

She meant that I want to be with her. Maybe she was right, at least a huge part of me did. But the part of me that wanted to keep my family was just as powerful.

We ended that conversation with no resolution, just a lot of tears and holding each other. She didn’t outright say she was ending things if I didn’t go on the trip, but it felt like an ultimatum hanging in the air. She asked me to let her know by the next week if I could come. She even said I could frame it as a “self-care retreat” or something to my husband, since she knew I’d never tell him the truth about who I’d be with.

I went home that night a wreck. I looked at Evan eating dinner with our son, helping him with homework afterward, just being the great dad and partner he is. I felt angry in that moment—not at him, but at myself, at the universe. Angry that I had all this love and stability and I ruined it by wanting more. Angry that fate put Riley in my path at the wrong time. Angry that I couldn’t just be satisfied and happy like I was “supposed” to be. It would be so easy if I could shut off my feelings for her. Then life would continue smoothly. But I couldn’t; they were a part of me now.

That night, I had a bit of a breakdown. After everyone was in bed, I went downstairs, sat on the kitchen floor, and just sobbed into a dish towel (seems I have a thing for crying into towels). I was making these quiet, keening sounds I hardly recognized as coming from me. I felt trapped in an impossible situation of my own making. I kept thinking: I’m going to lose something here, no matter what. There is no way for everyone to be happy. Someone is going to get really hurt, or maybe everyone will. The guilt and fear were suffocating.

Unbeknownst to me, my husband had woken up and heard me crying (I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought). He came downstairs, alarmed to find me on the floor like that. I must have looked horrid—eyes swollen, nose red, just a mess. He rushed over, “Anna, baby, what’s wrong?!”

I panicked. This was the first time my inner turmoil had visibly burst out in front of him. I scrambled to find an answer. My mind immediately jumped to something concrete but unrelated: a few days prior I had learned that an old college friend of mine (who I’d lost touch with) passed away from cancer. I hadn’t even processed it fully or told him yet. So I latched onto that and told him through sobs that I’d just found out my friend died and I was overwhelmed with grief and also it made me think about life and wasted time and I just… lost it. This was only a partial lie—my friend did die, and I was very saddened by it, but clearly my breakdown was about much more. Still, it was a plausible explanation he could accept.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” he said, pulling me into his arms on the kitchen floor. I felt like the lowest scum on earth. Here he was comforting me, completely unaware that the real knife in my heart was not just my friend’s death, but that I was in love with someone else and destroying our marriage behind his back. I clung to him and cried even harder, because I did feel the grief about my friend, but mostly I was crying for myself, for him, for this entire mess. He gently rocked me, whispering soothing words. I think he even teared up a bit seeing me so distraught. He helped me up, made me a cup of tea, and sat with me until I had calmed down. He was so kind. I almost hated him for it in that moment because it made what I was doing to him even worse. A cruel spouse or an indifferent one might have made it easier for me to justify my actions or consider leaving. But he was wonderful.

After that night, something shifted in me. I realized I could not keep going like this much longer without cracking completely or slipping up. I had to either fully recommit to my family and break it off with Riley for good, or… or I had to come clean and face whatever came, even if that meant losing my marriage.

It felt like an impossible choice. But seeing how deeply my inner conflict was eating me alive (to the point of that breakdown), I knew I had to decide soon. Riley’s almost-ultimatum only underscored the urgency. She deserved an answer; she deserved something more than limbo.

The following days, I was a zombie. I’d look at my husband and burst into tears randomly (which I played off as still grieving my friend—he started to worry I might need counseling or something). I avoided making love to him, using the excuse of emotional exhaustion. I was distant but also clingy in weird ways, hugging him and my son a lot as if memorizing the feel of them, because I was acutely aware I might blow up this life.

I met with Riley one evening in her car by a park (neutral ground) to talk. She could tell I was on edge. I told her I was very close to a breaking point and that I might have to tell Evan the truth because I couldn’t stand the lying anymore. She looked terrified at that prospect, and said “Are you sure? Once you do that, there’s no going back.” She was scared not just for me, but for herself too – outing an affair means consequences. She could lose her job (though I wouldn’t publicly say it was the coach; but he could figure it out potentially). She also worried he’d hate her or maybe even confront her. It wasn’t a small thing.

I said I wasn’t sure of anything except that I was drowning in guilt and it wasn’t sustainable. She then asked quietly, “If you tell him… is it because you want to choose me? Or because you just want to unburden yourself and try to fix your marriage?” That question nearly broke me. I realized I hadn’t actually answered that even to myself. Was I telling him because I wanted to be free to be with her, or because I wanted to absolve myself and see if he’d still have me?

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, choking up. “I want both. I know I can’t have that. But I don’t want to lose you. And I don’t want to lose him and my family either.” I was sobbing by now in the passenger seat. She pulled me into her arms and let me cry into her shoulder. She was shaking, and I realized she was crying too, silently. We were two miserable people tangled in a mess of love and betrayal.

She gently stroked my hair and said, “Maybe… maybe you should tell him. Because this secret is killing you. And you don’t deserve to die for what… for loving someone.”

I pulled back and looked at her in surprise. She was wiping her tears. “Even if it means… we end?” I asked, voice raw.

Her face crumpled a bit, but she forced a sad smile. “I just want you to be okay. If telling him gives you any peace… you should do it. Whatever happens after, we’ll figure it out. If he… if he ends things, I’ll be here. If he doesn’t, and you choose to stay, then at least I’ll know I did the right thing not pulling you away.”

That kind of selflessness made me ache. I realized she was willing to let me go if it meant me healing or being okay. And Evan, though he didn’t know what was going on yet, also just wanted me to be okay (he literally said so when urging me to talk to someone about my “grief”). Both of them loved me and wanted me happy, and here I was making everyone unhappy.

It was in that moment I think I decided I had to tell him. It was the hardest decision of my life. But I owed him the truth, and I owed it to everyone to break the stalemate. Living a lie was no longer an option.

The day I chose to do it was a week ago. I remember the date, it’s burned in my memory. I had scheduled a babysitter to take our son out to a movie and ice cream in the evening under the guise that I needed to have a serious talk with “daddy” about adult stuff (my son is thankfully young enough not to question much). I had asked Evan earlier that day if we could have a talk that night, just us, and he looked concerned and said of course. I think he suspected something was off (maybe thought it was about my friend’s death or my mental health or something). The dread I felt leading up to that conversation was like waiting to walk to the gallows.

That evening, with our son out of the house, I sat my husband down in the living room. My heart was pounding so hard I was visibly shaking. He took my hands and asked, “What is it, Anna? You’re scaring me.”

I started to cry immediately—just the fact that he was worried about me and holding my hands kindly when I was about to nuke his world… it was too much. I told him to please just let me speak because if he interrupted I might not get it out. He looked more alarmed but nodded.

I said something along these lines (maybe not exact, there was a lot of crying on my part so it was probably less coherent, but I had rehearsed a bit): “You know I love you, right? I have always loved you so much. And I never wanted to hurt you. But I… I’ve done something terrible. And I need to be honest about it now, no matter what happens.”

His face went pale and serious. I think at that moment he knew what was coming, or at least had an idea. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I stared at our intertwined hands (mine trembling in his) and forced the words out: “I’ve been unfaithful. I’ve been having an affair.” I broke off then, sobbing. It was like saying it aloud made it real in a way my secret-keeping never did.

He didn’t let go of my hands, but I felt him stiffen. A stunned silence. Then he whispered, “…Why?” Such a simple question, but loaded with so much pain and confusion that it gutted me.

I shook my head, trying to find any explanation that would suffice. “It just happened… I didn’t mean… I never meant for it—” I was babbling. “I’m so sorry, Evan. I’m so sorry.” I think I said sorry about a hundred times throughout it all.

He pulled his hands away then, and I finally dared to look up. His eyes were wet, he looked like I’d physically struck him. “Who… who was it?” he asked, voice cracking. “Was it someone I know?”

I answered honestly (maybe stupidly, but I saw no point in lying anymore) and this was one of the hardest parts: “It… it’s with a woman. Someone from Jake’s soccer…” I couldn’t even finish before I saw recognition flash and then horror across his face.

“The coach? Riley?” he said, almost a gasp. He wasn’t angry yet, just utterly shocked. I nodded, covering my mouth as a sob escaped. I started blubbering about how I didn’t expect it, how it felt so confusing, how it wasn’t his fault at all.

His expression went through a kaleidoscope of emotions: confusion (maybe that I cheated with a woman specifically), betrayal, hurt, anger. He stood up abruptly, pacing a few steps away, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t… I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “You… and her? When… how…?”

I tried to explain in a torrent of words – that it started after season, that it wasn’t just physical, that I developed feelings I didn’t understand. He spun around and looked at me, and I’ll never forget the look on his face: pure anguish. “Feelings? So you… you love her?” He almost choked on the word.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I couldn’t lie and say no, but I couldn’t bear to hit him with another yes. My silence probably told him what he needed to know. He let out a strangled sort of half-sob, half-angry noise and punched the side of the doorway (not at me, just frustration). I flinched. I’d never seen him do something like that. Immediately he grimaced in pain from hitting the wall, shaking his hand.

I stood up, instinctively wanting to go to him, but he held a palm out toward me, “Don’t. Just… don’t come near me right now.” His voice was cold, which stung, but I understood. He was starting to put up a wall to protect himself.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again. “I never wanted to hurt you. You have to know that.”

He laughed then, a bitter hollow laugh. “You never wanted to hurt me? You’ve broken my heart, Anna. You’ve broken our family! How could you do this?” His voice cracked on the word “family” and I lost it, sobbing anew.

There was a lot said after that, a lot of tears from both of us, some angry words from him (though notably he never yelled super loud, it was this intense quiet anger which somehow felt more devastating). I remember him saying things like, “Was I not enough? What did I do wrong?” and me trying to assure him it wasn’t about him not being enough, that I didn’t plan this or because of any failing of his. I tried to explain my identity confusion, how I didn’t know I could feel this way about a woman until it happened, how it caught me off guard too. It sounded like excuses even to my own ears.

At one point he asked when was the last time I was with her and I had to be honest: just a week or so prior. He winced, realizing the extent of my deceit. “All those times I thought you were out with friends or at work things… Jesus Christ, Anna.” He looked physically ill.

He asked if our son ever saw anything, which I vehemently said no, never, I’d never involve our child in this. (Small solace, I guess.)

He then got quiet, in a scary way, and asked softly, “Do you want to leave me for her? Is that what this is?” There it was, the big question. Through my tears I said, “I don’t want to leave you. I’m just so torn. I haven’t been able to… to choose, and I know that’s unfair to everyone.”

He sat down again, but not next to me — across the room on another chair. He looked at me with red, defeated eyes. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. After ten years… I thought I knew you.” That made me break down more, because I hated that I’d shattered his image of me.

We talked (and cried) in circles a bit more. Eventually he just went quiet for a long stretch as I wept, wiping at his face occasionally. The silence was thick. Finally, he said in a low, hollow voice I’d never heard from him, “I think you should go stay somewhere else for a while. I can’t look at you right now.”

My heart dropped to the floor. I nodded, because what else could I do? This was totally expected and justified. I offered feebly, “I can go to my sister’s… or a hotel…” (My sister lives an hour away; we could say I was visiting a friend to our son for a short while maybe.)

He just nodded. “We’ll figure out what to tell [our son] later. Maybe that you’re traveling for work or something, I don’t know. I just… need space.” His voice broke on that last word and he put his head in his hands.

I wanted to reach out so badly, to comfort him, but I knew I was the last person he wanted comfort from. So I just quietly went upstairs, grabbed a duffel, and numbly packed some clothes and essentials while tears blurred my vision. In that moment, the reality hit me that I might have just ended my marriage. I had known it was a risk, but now it was actually happening and it felt surreal. I was shaking uncontrollably.

Before I left, I looked in on my son’s room—he was still out with the sitter but his toys were strewn about, little action figures I usually help him organize. I started sobbing again, thinking about not seeing him every day if this ended in divorce. The pain was almost physically crippling.

I forced myself to go. My husband didn’t say another word to me as I left. He didn’t even look up. I drove to a motel (ironically not the one Riley and I had used, a different one on the other side of town). I sat in that dingy room and just howled into the pillow until no sound was left.

The next few days were a blur of pain. I called out of work claiming a family emergency. I stayed at the motel two nights, then at my sister’s (I told her we were having marital issues but I was too ashamed to admit the details; she knew things were very bad though and didn’t press, just let me stay and was gentle around me). We told my son that Mom had to go on a trip for work (I hated lying, but he’s too young to understand the truth yet).

During this time, I did talk to Riley. I told her what happened, that I told him everything. She was appropriately worried and also I think touched that I actually did it. She offered to let me stay with her, but I felt that running straight into her arms would be too fast and also too painful for Evan if he found out. I needed to sort out what was happening with my marriage first. Riley understood, though I could tell she was also hopeful now – hopeful that maybe I’d choose to be with her openly if my marriage truly fell apart. She tried to comfort me as best she could over the phone, but I was a wreck. I was grieving—grieving the likely end of the life I knew, hurting for my husband’s pain and my son’s potential upheaval, and also anxious about what came next.

Eventually, Evan agreed to meet with me in person a few days later (without our son around). By then he had had time to process and had told his two closest friends (and maybe a therapist, not sure) for support. When I saw him, he looked so sad and tired. I probably looked the same. We talked calmly, surprisingly. He said he didn’t know if he could ever forgive me, and that at least for now, he wanted a separation. He said he wasn’t rushing to file for divorce yet, not until he could think clearly, but he also couldn’t imagine continuing with me after this. He was civil, but distant and deeply wounded. I mostly listened and cried softly. I didn’t beg or make a case for myself beyond expressing my deep remorse; I knew the time for that was past. I said I understood and I would respect whatever he needed to do. I asked if I could still see our son frequently during the separation; he said of course, he’d never keep me from him, but we’d have to figure out a schedule because he would be staying in the house and I would have to be elsewhere. We agreed to tell our son that Mom and Dad need a little break living together but that we both love him so much and it’s not his fault (we haven’t had that conversation yet as of writing this – I dread it, but it’s coming soon).

The meeting was heart-wrenchingly cordial. The coldness in his eyes at times, like he was looking at a stranger, cut me deeply. I left that meeting knowing my marriage was essentially over. Maybe not legally yet, but emotionally the bond was broken. He said he would never be able to trust me again. I didn’t argue; I knew that was likely true.

And so here I am now, living in limbo. I got an Airbnb for now (I felt guilty imposing on my sister too long). We’ve worked out that I have our son on certain afternoons and one day on weekends, etc., because I’m still his mom and we want to keep his life as normal as possible for now. When I’m with my boy, I put on a brave face and try not to cry. After I drop him off back home with his dad, I break down all over again.

As for Riley: she has been my one comfort and support through this, ironically. I know some readers might think “well, you two got what you wanted, now you can be together.” But it’s not that simple. I haven’t even processed everything enough to jump into playing happy couple with her. Yes, she was the catalyst, and yes, I love her. But right now I’m also mourning my marriage and hating myself for hurting Evan and breaking my family. It’s a weird, liminal space to be in, full of conflicting emotions. Riley understands that I need time. She has been patient and gentle, listening to me cry about how much I hate myself, holding me when I shake with anxiety about the future. She hasn’t pushed me to define what we are now. She just quietly lets me know she’s there for me and she loves me. Yes, she did finally say the actual words a couple days ago: “I love you, Anna.” It was in the midst of me crying about how I destroyed everything. I flinched when she said it, not because I didn’t feel similarly, but because I felt I didn’t deserve to hear it at that moment. I haven’t said those exact words back yet; I feel too guilty to indulge in that joy while everything is so raw. But I do love her. I think she knows it even if I can’t say it while my guilt about my husband is still so fresh.

I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe my marriage truly ends in divorce (it seems likely). Maybe I’ll eventually move forward with Riley and try to find happiness with her openly. Part of me longs for that outcome, if I allow myself to dream – I imagine living openly with her, not having to sneak around, my son maybe slowly understanding and seeing that his mom is happier and still loves him dearly and maybe accepting Riley in our lives. But another part of me is terrified of all that: the stigma, the change for my son, the reality vs the fantasy of being with her when we’re not in an exciting secret bubble but in day-to-day life. And overshadowing it all is the knowledge of what my actions have done, the hurt caused. No matter what happiness I might find later, I will always carry regret and guilt for how I handled things.

If I could go back in time, would I do things differently? Absolutely. I would either have cut off the friendship when I first felt something, or been honest with myself and my husband earlier about my feelings before it got physical. Maybe we could have navigated a separation or understanding with less betrayal. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is learn from it and try to be better.

This confession has turned into a whole novel (sorry, I guess I needed to spill every detail – if you read all this, thank you). I doubt many will have sympathy for me, and I get that. I’m not asking for absolution. I mostly just needed to get this off my chest because it’s the heaviest thing I’ve ever carried.

I love my husband — or maybe I should say loved, past tense, because he may never let me show him love again. And I also love this woman who set my soul on fire and showed me a part of myself I never knew. Those two truths will haunt me for a long time.

I’m sitting here in this tiny Airbnb, the smell of her perfume still on my shirt from when she hugged me this morning, typing this out and wondering how my life got here. Lipstick stains and vows indeed — one leaving marks that exposed the betrayal of the other. I still have a faint pink lipstick stain on the inside of my coat collar from a kiss she gave me weeks ago; I discovered it later and my heart nearly stopped thinking Evan might see it. He didn’t, but it feels symbolic now. A mark of passion hidden on a garment, just like our affair was a hidden mark on my life. Eventually, such stains come to light or have to be scrubbed clean, but a trace always remains.

If you take anything from this, let it be that secrets like this fester and eventually explode. You can’t live divided forever. I tried, and it broke me, and now I’ve broken everything I swore to protect. There were moments of joy in this affair, incredible moments, but they came at a terrible cost. I got to experience a love that felt like lightning, but it struck down the life I had built. I don’t know yet if I’ll ever feel like that cost was “worth it” or not. Right now, it feels like everyone lost something.

I’m not sure how to end this post. It’s not neatly resolved. I’m here, in the wreckage, hoping to find a path forward. If you’ve read this far, thank you for bearing witness. Please be gentle in the comments if you can; I know I’m the villain in many ways, but I’m also a human who’s in a lot of pain right now. I will understand if you feel I made all the wrong choices — sometimes I think that too.

I just… I loved two people and it tore me in half. Now I’m trying to figure out how to put the pieces of myself back together.

EDIT:

First, I’m truly overwhelmed by the responses and support in the comments. I expected mostly anger (and I accept that too), but so many of you have shown compassion or at least understanding that this situation is complex and heartbreaking all around. Thank you. I’ve been reading your messages and I’m honestly in tears again (but for once, it’s because I feel a little less alone).

There are a few common questions and points I want to address:

• “Do you even love your husband? How could you do this to him if you did?”
  I do love (loved?) Evan. Deeply. He’s been my family and best friend for years. My actions might suggest otherwise, I know. The only way I can explain it is that my love for him and my love (yes, I’ll use that word now) for Riley are different, and I was desperately trying to deny one for the sake of the other. It wasn’t that anything was wrong with him or our marriage in a clear-cut way. I was unfulfilled in ways I didn’t realize, and that’s on me for not recognizing or addressing it in a healthy way. I never set out to hurt him. In fact, I stupidly thought I could keep it all separate and avoid hurting him at all, which was naive and selfish. Loving someone doesn’t automatically prevent you from hurting them, unfortunately. Sometimes we hurt those we love the most, because we’re weak or flawed or in turmoil. I will always regret that I let my confusion and desire lead me to hurt a man who deserved better.
• “Are you going to try to reconcile with Evan? Do you even want to?”
  Right now, Evan has made it clear he needs space and is leaning towards divorce. I’m respecting that. As much as it breaks my heart to lose him, a part of me also knows our marriage would never be the same or truly healthy after this, unless by some miracle he forgave me and we both committed to years of rebuilding trust (and even then, the fact remains that I have feelings for someone else). It wouldn’t be fair to him to stay only half-invested, and it wouldn’t be fair to me (or Riley) to pretend I don’t feel what I feel. I think in my heart I’ve accepted that my marriage is likely over, though that realization makes me grieve deeply. I’ll always care for him and co-parent with him, but I doubt we can come back from this as a couple. I am hoping with time we can be amicable for our son’s sake. I’m giving him whatever he needs to heal, even if that’s a life without me.
• “What about your sexuality? Are you a lesbian, bi, what does this mean?”
  I’ve done a lot of soul-searching on this. The best label would be bisexual, I suppose, since clearly I have the capacity to love and be attracted to both men and women. I never acknowledged it before because I never had a reason to; I fell in love with a man and thought that was the whole story. This aspect of the situation has been a huge identity shake-up for me. Some suggested maybe I’ve always been into women and suppressed it – I don’t think that’s the case. I never felt this pull to a woman before Riley. But sexuality can be fluid and unexpected. I certainly never imagined at 37 having an awakening like this. It’s a lot to process, and truthfully I haven’t processed it fully yet. I just fell in love with a person who happened to be female, that’s how I see Riley. If things progress with her now, I’ll probably eventually come out to close people in my life as bi. But one crisis at a time; I’m not broadcasting that yet.
• “How could you involve your son’s coach? That seems extra messy/unethical.”
  I agree it complicated things immensely. Believe me, I tortured myself over the fact she was involved in my kid’s life in that way. We tried to keep it completely separate from the soccer stuff – nothing inappropriate happened in that context, ever. But yes, had it ever blown up publicly, it could have affected her job and the team, etc. I’m not proud of that. It was a unique scenario where we met through that channel, and emotions took over before either of us considered the consequences logically. If I could undo that part, I would. We did make sure that once the season was over, she requested to switch to coaching a different age group in the next season (she told her boss it was to avoid any conflict since we became “friends” and our kids were friends – which was true as far as it went). So she’s not currently coaching my son and wouldn’t in future to keep things clean on that end.
• “What about Riley now? You basically blew up your life for her – are you two going to be together officially?”
  It’s not “official” yet. We’re spending time together privately as I sort out my separation. She’s been supportive and patient, but yes, we have discussed trying to be together for real if/when the dust settles. I think we want that, ultimately. But I’m cautious. I told her I need to make sure I’m not just throwing myself into her arms as a rebound escape from my guilt. I want to be as healthy as possible before starting a new life with her. She agreed. We also have to consider my son – any introduction of a new partner (especially one who was an “auntie” figure/coach to him) will have to be done very carefully and slowly, once enough time has passed and if things get serious. For now, I’m keeping that entirely separate from my parenting; he doesn’t know about her role in this at all. She’s just “Coach Riley” in his mind, who he hasn’t seen in a while. One step at a time.
• General note on judgment:
  Some folks have (rightly) pointed out the harm I caused and that cheating is never okay. I agree. I don’t justify what I did; I only hope I’ve explained the emotional context that led to it. It was wrong, full stop. I appreciate those who empathized with my human fallibility despite condemning the action. And those who were more harsh – I understand too. Cheating is a very raw topic that hurts many people. I knew I’d get flak and I accept it. I’m trying to learn from this and never hurt someone like this again.

Lastly, a few people advised me to seek therapy, both for myself and possibly with my husband if we attempt any co-parenting counseling or just to process the separation. I absolutely intend to. I actually have my first solo therapy session next week. I need it—for grief, guilt, identity issues, all of it. Maybe down the road, Evan and I will do counseling to navigate co-parenting or even closure between us.

I also want to say that writing this all out and reading your responses has been cathartic in a way I didn’t expect. It’s given me perspective that this situation, as terrible as it is, is not entirely unique and that people do eventually find a way through similar heartbreaks. Some of you shared your own experiences of infidelity (from both sides) and it helped me see the potential paths forward, even if none are easy.

I don’t know if there will be a “happy” ending here, at least not in the near future. It’s more like a somber, reflective moving forward. I’ve broken vows, but maybe I can forge new promises—to be honest, to be brave enough to face myself, to do right by my child and even by Evan in whatever way I can from here on (at minimum being a good co-parent and respecting his healing). And with Riley—if we are truly going to give this love a chance in the open, we’ll have to navigate it carefully and sincerely, without the shadows that once fueled it.

UPDATE: (A few months later)

Hi everyone. I wasn’t sure if I should come back and post an update, but a lot of you have been so kind and seemed genuinely interested in how things turned out. It’s been about three months since my original post. It feels like a lifetime ago, honestly. So much has changed, yet some things are still in progress. Buckle up (again), because I have a lot to report.

First and foremost, my marriage: Evan and I are officially separated now, living apart obviously, and he did decide to file for divorce last month. When those papers were served, I can’t say I was surprised, but it still hit me hard. Even when you expect it, seeing it in black and white — “irretrievable breakdown of the marriage” — made my chest ache. We’ve agreed on joint custody of our son in principle, aiming for a fairly equal split because we both want to be in his life. We’re trying to keep it amicable for his sake. We’ve each lawyered up just to handle the legalities smoothly, but we promised each other we’ll not turn this into a war. So far, we’re honoring that promise. There’s a lot of hurt and some days we can barely speak without it being awkward or painful, but when it comes to coordinating about our son or finances, etc., we’re being cordial.

We sat down with our son together and explained (in a very simplified way) that mom and dad are going to live in different houses, but that we both love him so much and that will never change. I was so anxious about that talk, but our little boy is resilient and so far he’s handling the new arrangement okay. He did cry once asking why I can’t come home and I had to cry with him and just hold him, telling him I love him. We didn’t give him any details about why, of course. Someday when he’s much older, if he asks, I’ll have to figure out what to say. I dread that, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, he just knows Mommy and Daddy aren’t together but they both love him.

I know some might wonder if I have any hope of reconciliation with Evan. The honest answer is no. That ship has sailed. In our conversations since, it’s clear he has closed that door and, hard as it was to accept, I think it’s for the best. I broke something that can’t be unbroken. Even if he miraculously offered forgiveness down the line, I’m not sure our marriage could ever be healthy or whole after what happened. I’ve hurt him too much. He’s begun therapy on his own (I gently suggested it during one of our talks, because I could see he was bottling a lot; he later told me he went and it’s helping him process). I’m glad. I want him to heal and eventually, when he’s ready, find someone who can give him the undivided love he deserves. He actually said to me recently (during a relatively calm conversation about logistics), “I do hope you find happiness or whatever it is you’re looking for… but I also hope it was worth it for you.” The way he said “worth it” wasn’t bitter, more resigned, like he genuinely wondered if blowing up our marriage was ultimately going to bring me the happiness I sought. I didn’t know what to say. I just replied, “I don’t know yet, but I hope so too.” It was a hard exchange. It’s hard to accept that I’m the one who caused a good man so much pain. But here we are.

Now, about Riley… I know that’s the part many are curious (or judgmental) about, given everything. As I mentioned, I didn’t immediately rush into playing house with her. I needed time to stabilize, and she respected that. For the first month after the separation, we actually kept a bit of distance romantically. We still talked daily, and she was definitely there for me on my lowest nights, but physically we slowed down because I was just too emotionally raw and she didn’t want to feel like she was taking advantage of my vulnerable state. We agreed to give me time to properly mourn my marriage and ensure I was entering whatever this is with a clear head.

We did meet up in person occasionally, even just to sit together or for a walk. She has been my rock in so many ways, but also struggling with her own guilt in all this. She actually wrote a letter to Evan — that she never sent (at least not yet) — basically apologizing for her role. She showed it to me; it was heartfelt and sorrowful. In it, she said she never meant to steal me and that she’s sorry for the pain caused. I know some will roll their eyes at that, but it did show me that she’s not selfishly rejoicing in the demise of my marriage. She cares that people got hurt. It weighs on her. For what it’s worth, I appreciated that deeply.

After about a month and a half, I realized that while I was still sad about the end of the marriage, I didn’t actually regret telling the truth and not living in deception anymore. The guilt was less, not gone, but less, because at least everything was out in the open. The chips had fallen. And when I envisioned the future, the only times I felt a spark of hope or happiness was when I pictured Riley in it. I do love her — I’ll say that plainly now. I think I was already in love with her back when I first posted, but I was so guilt-ridden I couldn’t fully own it. Now, with the dust settling a bit, I can.

So, we decided to cautiously start dating, for lack of a better term, as an official couple. It’s strange using that word after everything, but in many ways we are starting over in a new context. No more hiding (well, except we’re keeping it discreet from my son until the time is right, but the key people in my life know). I’ve moved out of the Airbnb and into a small apartment of my own, and she spends a lot of time here with me. Sometimes she stays over, though not on nights I have my son (we’re taking that very slow – he hasn’t seen her at my place in that way, and we’re careful not to confuse him or rush introductions beyond “she’s a friend” in passing).

We go out to dinner, we take walks in the park holding hands – the first time we did that, we both almost cried from how simple yet monumental it felt to just hold hands publicly without fear. We even took a weekend trip together a couple weeks ago, to that hiking spot she had mentioned long ago. It was beautiful and romantic and also bittersweet, because I couldn’t help thinking back to how that trip was an almost-ultimatum scenario before. Now we were there with no subterfuge needed. We climbed a mountain trail and at the summit, in a quiet moment, she asked me softly, “Do you regret it? Choosing this path?” I knew she meant “do you regret choosing me, given all that happened?” I answered honestly: “I regret the hurt we caused. I regret how we handled things… but being with you? Loving you? I can’t regret that.” We both teared up and kissed, the wind cold and fierce up there but our little bubble warm. It felt like a turning point, a sort of acceptance that yes, we are moving forward together and we won’t hide it.

That being said, it’s not all sunshine. There’s a lot of emotional baggage we are working through. I have moments where I’m extremely moody or depressed, and she sometimes worries I’ll never be happy with her because I’ll always feel guilty or like I’m “the bad guy who doesn’t deserve happiness.” I’m working on that in therapy, trying to allow myself to feel joy again without self-sabotage. She also has her own fears: that I’ll one day regret leaving my comfortable life and resent her, or that I might hurt her too if I ever have doubts. We communicate a lot about these things. Open communication is something I’m learning to do better, period. My therapist has been helping me see how I let things fester unsaid in my marriage (my own needs, identity issues) which partly led to seeking fulfilment elsewhere. I’m determined not to make that mistake again. Riley and I talk things through, even uncomfortable stuff, as honestly as we can.

One issue that came up is the fact that an affair built on secrecy can create a kind of aura or bubble that fades in reality. We were worried that once we were “legit,” maybe the excitement would dull or we’d discover we’re not as compatible in real life responsibilities. So far, I can say being with her still feels amazing, even when we’re doing mundane chores or I see her flossing or we bicker over what to watch. In fact, seeing her in a normal daily light only makes me love her more. It’s not just an illicit thrill thing (though that element disappearing did scare us a bit). If anything, it’s a relief to have normalcy. We still have a ton of passion (that definitely hasn’t dwindled, I’m happy to report), but we also have a deep friendship and ease that just fits. I wake up next to her (on days I don’t have my kid) and it feels right, even if around us there’s still some chaos to sort out.

I also want to acknowledge something important: My situation is mine alone, and I don’t want anyone to think I’m glamorizing affairs or suggesting that this outcome – ending up with the affair partner happily – is typical or easy. It’s not. I read somewhere a while back that most affairs burn out or never withstand the transition to real life, and I was mindful of that. I’m hopeful and cautiously optimistic with Riley, but I’m also aware we have to put in real effort to build a solid foundation, especially given how we started. Trust between us, for example – ironically, we trust each other deeply in some ways because we were so emotionally honest with each other, yet in other ways, we have to address the elephant in the room that we both cheated (she was complicit in cheating and I was the cheater), so there’s a fear like “what if one of us does that down the line to each other?” We’ve promised each other transparency and that if either of us ever feels drawn to someone else or unhappy, we will talk about it rather than sneak. That’s easier said now than done, but I intend to keep that promise and so does she. We don’t want to ever relive this kind of hurt, no matter what.

On the practical side of things: She actually left the youth coaching job and got a position at a private sports academy in a neighboring town. She figured it might be less messy and a good fresh start, since eventually our situation might become gossip in our community if people knew (so far it’s been pretty contained – small towns have whispers but nothing dramatic has blown back on her or me publicly). The move was good for her career too; it pays better and she’s appreciated there. I’m proud of her, though I miss seeing her on the field with my son. Selfishly, that’s probably for the best anyway – no constant reminder for my ex or others about the affair.

My relationship with my own family: I did end up coming out to my sister and also telling her the truth of what happened. She was shocked (especially since she knew Evan and I seemed so good) but she has been supportive of me as her sibling. She told me she’d never condone cheating but she also saw that I was genuinely in love and going through hell, and she just wanted me to be safe and find my way. She’s met Riley (in a quiet, no-big-deal way) and told me afterward, “I can see the chemistry, she seems wonderful – just please don’t ever lie to me like you lied to him.” I said I wouldn’t. I haven’t told my parents – they’re older and very old-school, and since divorce is now happening I will eventually have to explain that to them, but I may not volunteer the affair detail unless necessary. If/when Riley becomes a permanent fixture and it’s obvious, I’ll cross that coming-out bridge fully with them. I expect mixed reactions, but ultimately they love me and our son; they won’t disown me or anything, just might be disappointed for a time.

And yes, my son has seen Riley once or twice in passing. We haven’t integrated her into his life as “Mommy’s partner” yet. But one day when dropping him off, she was with me in the car and he saw her and went “Coach Riley!!” She handled it so well – just smiled, said hi buddy, asked how school was, that kind of thing. He asked why she was with me and I just said, “Oh, I was giving Coach a ride somewhere.” At this point, that satisfied him. He did tell Evan “I saw Coach Riley” which apparently did not go over great (Evan asked me curtly to not have her around when I have our son, at least for now; he’s not comfortable with it yet). I agreed to that for the time being, out of respect for his process. Introducing a new partner to a kid so soon after a split is generally not advised anyway, so I will wait a bit longer, and when I do, it will be delicately and likely with a therapist’s guidance on how to frame it.

One more thing to mention: the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been through also included a period of serious depressive thoughts. I was very low on self-worth for a while, and I admit there were a couple moments I had some scary thoughts about not wanting to exist because of the pain I caused. I want to thank some commenters who urged me to seek help and reminded me that one mistake (even a big one) doesn’t mean my life is over or that I don’t deserve a chance to make things right. Therapy has been crucial for me. It’s ongoing, and I likely will continue for quite a while. I’m working on forgiving myself. That’s the hardest part. Oddly, Evan, in one conversation (maybe in a moment of closure-seeking for himself) told me that despite everything, he did at one time have a decade of a good life with me and he’ll never forget that. That felt like a tiny sliver of forgiveness or at least acknowledgement that I wasn’t a terrible wife until this event. It gave me some peace that not all our memories are ruined for him.

I hope he finds someone who will be faithful and devoted to him in all the ways I failed to be. He deserves that. And I hope in time he can maybe not forgive me exactly, but find it in him to at least not hate me. Right now, we’re civil but he’s understandably still cold when it’s not about our son. Maybe that will warm with time, maybe not. I have to accept whatever happens there.

So, was it “worth it”? It’s a question that haunts me because if I say yes, it feels callous – like I’m saying hurting him was worth it for my gain. If I say no, it feels like I’m denying my heart and also that it was all for nothing. The truth is… it was both and neither. It was worth it in the sense that I’ve found a love and an authentic sense of self that I might never have discovered otherwise. But it came at an awful cost, one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. In a perfect world, I’d have come to this crossroads without the betrayal – maybe if I’d recognized my discontent earlier, talked to Evan, separated amicably before anything happened with Riley. But that’s not how it went, and I have to live with that.

All I can do now is strive to live honestly and fully. I’m making a life with someone I deeply love, and I’m also a mother who will always put my child first, and I hope eventually I’ll be an ex-wife who can be forgiven enough to have a cordial relationship for our co-parenting years. It’s a lot to juggle, but I’m trying my best.

To everyone who commented on my original post: whether you were harsh or kind or a mix of both, thank you. It was the act of confronting it by writing it all out and seeing reactions that partly gave me the courage to do what I needed to do. And the support from strangers in my darkest hour was unexpectedly comforting and gave me hope that I’m not alone in making terrible mistakes and learning from them.

Life is messy and painful and sometimes beautiful too. I’m learning to accept all those facets. I think, for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic about the future. I know there will be more challenges – I’m not naïve; there’s likely drama to navigate as we finalize the divorce and as people learn about me and Riley. But I’m stronger now than I was months ago. And I have people in my corner to face it with.

If it’s not too presumptuous to end on a lesson (my situation is mine, not everyone’s, I’m not a moral authority on anything), I’ll just say: honesty is brutal, but secrecy slowly kills your soul. I hate what I did in secret; I hate the lies. I have a scar from them that will never fully go away. But stepping into the light, as painful as it was, ultimately feels better than living in the dark. If anyone out there is in a similar boat — I’m not encouraging you to blow up your life or pursue the affair, but I urge you to either confront your issues openly or let the other person go before you cause irreparable damage. It won’t be easy, no matter what, but at least you’ll be living truthfully.

Alright, that’s all I have. “Lipstick Stains & Vows” – I called it that because the image of a lipstick stain (from Riley) on the collar of my white wedding dress (from memory) came to mind as I wrote the original. One world bleeding into another. Now the vows are broken, the lipstick stain is out in the open, and somehow I have to weave a new narrative from here. It’s not neat or morally tidy, but it’s real.

Thank you for reading my story. Hug the ones you love, be honest with them (and yourself), and if you ever find yourself in a position like mine… know that you’re not the first or last, and life does go on, one way or another.

Signing off, with a heart both heavy and hopeful.