Affairs are infamous for eroding trust—trust in oneself, trust in others, and faith in a higher power. This trust, the belief that goodness can prevail even amidst chaos, is the invisible thread that connects us to the world and provides stability in tumultuous times.

Yet, when a shocking revelation occurs, that thread can shatter.

As we spiral into disarray, it’s not our own world that feels upside-down; rather, it’s the reality around us that suddenly appears distorted. What once seemed familiar transforms into a nightmare, leaving us to question if we’ve awakened in a bad dream or if we’re finally seeing the world as it has always been.

I witnessed this unraveling in her eyes—his wife's eyes. I perceived the loss she endured and everything that had vanished from her life. In that moment, I longed to make her comprehend my perspective. Although I realized I couldn’t rescue her, the haunting thoughts of what could have been kept me awake at night and invaded my daydreams.

At that early stage of “discovery,” I still harbored the hope that he would confess the truth and return to me. I had yet to grasp that she, too, had lost everything, and she wasn’t the only one struggling to maintain a belief in love, despite having no justification for it.

She wasn’t the one I needed to focus on.

Throughout my teenage years and into adulthood, I observed my mother’s affair with a married man. She was the “other woman.” Over twenty-five years later, that label still applied.

In those initial days, their love seemed unmatched. I was a witness to it. However, as the years passed without any change—he never leaving his wife—I found myself engulfed in confusion, eventually hardening my heart. If their love couldn’t triumph, perhaps love itself was an illusion.

I often pondered his marriage and the impact on his wife. But what perplexed me most was my mother’s willingness to inflict this pain on herself. Did she lack self-respect? Was she content to perpetually shatter her own heart? If he truly loved her, why did he continue to cause her pain? Were they simply naive, or were they selfish?

I recognized that even honest individuals sometimes deceive, yet they don’t revel in it. Did my mother and her partner find joy in their situation?

I remember vividly when she wept on the couch for months after he claimed to visit his father in Idaho, only for her to discover through an open email that he had taken a vacation with his wife. Still, she couldn’t leave him.

That’s when I began to resent her for allowing me to witness her suffering, feeling utterly powerless to intervene, knowing precisely how our lives would unfold week after week. I despised her for subjecting us to this. This wasn’t a cosmic tragedy; it was a toxic cycle she willingly embraced, disregarding my objections.

Even on Valentine’s Day 2024, a grand bouquet arrived at our doorstep, while he was nowhere to be found. Naturally, he was with his wife.

I have never seen him on Valentine’s Day, nor have I witnessed my mother’s joy upon receiving flowers—flowers he never delivered in person. He used to send extravagant arrangements, but this year it was a modest bouquet. Yet, she still glared at the flowers all week.

I examined the note nestled among the petals; it read, “I know how much you love receiving flowers.” This made me ponder whose delusions sustained this relationship for so long—his or hers?

Now approaching 70, they’ve experienced health scares and the loss of loved ones, leading to a quieter dynamic on her end. She claims they haven’t been intimate since the pandemic began, but I hear them laughing on the phone regularly, reminiscent of their past.

In my high school years, he would visit during lunch breaks or after their dinners, and I could hear them in her room. Given the size of our home, it was more economical for them to be intimate while I was nearby than to rent a hotel room.

I realized their relationship was kept secret, and I loathed the fact that he could come over, act as a grandparent to my children, and share stories about his real family—people who had no idea about us.

I still seethe at the memory. After he left, I confronted my mother, expressing my gratitude for our living arrangement but also my refusal to let my children be subjected to his presence. I would never ask them to pretend they didn’t know him, as she had done with us. To her credit, she apologized and agreed to my terms; he never returned.

Yet, I feel a pang of sadness for the bond my children missed out on, the wholesome moments we could have shared, cut short before they truly began.

What will happen when he passes away? Will she be left in the dark? Even if she learns of his death, she’ll never attend his funeral. What kind of love is that?

Looking back, I realize my mother may have understood something about love that I did not—that it exists, and that even when relationships crumble or people commit unforgivable acts, love lingers. It’s not as simple as my therapist suggested; writing his name on paper and burning it won’t erase feelings.

What I viewed as my mother’s shameful fling was likely her longing for intimacy in her own space, wanting to share her life with him. They probably desired to create a semblance of normalcy, rather than retreating to a sterile hotel.

On their trips, they’d stay in hotels, and I grew to despise them as much as I loathed the flower deliveries. In my twenties, I would gaze out the car window and wonder how many men were planning clandestine rendezvous while pretending to be devoted family men.

Even in my thirties, after having children, I would watch seemingly happy families and question if the husbands were preoccupied with their secret lives, masking infidelity behind smiles.

This has been my journey; I look back now and am surprised I ever married at all, given my tumultuous upbringing.

For years, I only perceived his visits for physical encounters and her sadness when he wasn’t around. I can still picture her at the kitchen phone, tethered to it, desperately awaiting his call.

Those moments without him were her genuine life, the one with her actual children. To her, we were merely the interruptions between the joyful times spent with him.

What I once considered true love transformed into a grotesque illusion. From them, I learned that all relationships could be false, but affairs were the most despicable. The individuals involved seemed to acknowledge the facade of love and the grim reality, yet they chose to indulge in it, failing to strive for betterment or to mitigate their negative impact on the world.

I loathed them for their selfishness, their enjoyment at the expense of my childhood. They robbed me of the genuine family life my mother could have pursued if she had sought a real partner. Why didn’t she even try?

I had long directed my anger at him, fluctuating between resentment and sympathy for her, but now my focus shifted squarely onto her.

I vowed to never, under any circumstances, emulate her.

Hi, I’m Cole. I share stories from my life in California, focusing on miracles and the ordinary. My aim isn’t flawless writing but to confront difficult truths and celebrate hope, love, and magic along the way. Thank you for your support, dear reader.