I Cheated, Divorced, and Lost My Son’s Trust—Can I Ever Make It Right?

I Cheated, Divorced, and Lost My Son’s Trust—Can I Ever Make It Right?

I still remember the summer I met James in a cozy Bristol café. Rain pattered against the windows, and his shy smile as he offered to share his umbrella felt like something out of a rom-com. We fell hard and fast, and within a year, our families were toasting our engagement in a charming Cotswolds pub. Marriage followed, and our early years in a modest London flat were filled with laughter, late-night talks, and dreams of a simple, happy life.

By year five, though, something shifted. I’d landed a senior role at a sleek marketing firm in Canary Wharf, rubbing shoulders with London’s elite. The glass-walled offices and champagne networking events were worlds away from our cozy flat. I started noticing how James, a teacher, seemed content with his steady but unflashy life. His old jumpers and practical car began to irk me, and I’d catch myself wishing for more—more glamour, more ambition.

It wasn’t fair, I know. But the more I mingled with polished colleagues, the more I felt a restless itch. I’d snap at James over small things—his socks on the floor, his “boring” dinner ideas. Looking back, I was chasing a fantasy, blind to the love we’d built.

My new world at work introduced me to Oliver, a charismatic colleague from our Paris office. He was everything James wasn’t: impeccably dressed, effortlessly charming, and dripping with stories of yacht weekends in Monaco. We’d linger over coffee at work events, our chats turning flirtatious. I told myself it was harmless, but deep down, I knew I was crossing a line. Oliver’s attention made me feel alive, like I was starring in a glossier version of my life.

At home, things with James deteriorated. Our arguments grew sharper—I’d call him “stagnant,” he’d call me “ungrateful.” One night in our flat, I screamed that he’d never give our son, Ethan, the life I wanted. James just stared, hurt, and said, “You’ve changed, Sarah.” He tried harder for a while, taking on extra tutoring gigs, but I’d dismiss his efforts. Soon, we were barely speaking, locked in a cold war for weeks.

That’s when Oliver and I got closer. He was in London often, and our late-night texts turned into secret dinners in Soho. I was smitten, dreaming of a future with him. Then James found my messages. He didn’t yell; he just sat me down in our kitchen, voice steady, and said, “Choose, Sarah. Him or us. If you can’t end it, we’re done.”

Blinded by my fantasy, I chose divorce. I thought Oliver was my ticket to a better life. I left Ethan with James, convincing myself it was temporary, and walked away from our marriage without looking back.

Oliver and I moved into a chic apartment in Amsterdam, where he was based for work. I was giddy, imagining our glamorous life—art galleries, canal-side dinners, maybe a ring soon. But cracks appeared fast. When I pushed him to divorce his wife, he’d dodge, saying, “Let’s not rush, Sarah.” I brushed it off, clinging to my dream. We’d sip wine in our sleek living room, but his charm felt hollow, his smiles rehearsed.

Two months in, I pressed harder for commitment. One evening, under the glow of a canal-side restaurant, I demanded answers. Oliver leaned back, cold as ice, and said, “I never planned to leave my wife. This was just… fun.” My stomach dropped. I’d been a fling, a distraction. He wasn’t my knight in shining armor; he was a player who saw me as disposable. I felt like such a fool.

Fury took over. I threatened to tell his wife, to expose him at work. He didn’t flinch. “Go ahead,” he said, “but you’ll ruin yourself too. Think about your career.” His words hit like a slap. I’d burned bridges for him—my marriage, my son, my stability. Swallowing my pride, I moved out, renting a tiny flat in Rotterdam. Alone, I faced the wreckage of my choices.

Nights were the worst. In the silence, I’d replay memories of James—his goofy laugh, how he’d dance with Ethan in our kitchen. I missed my son’s giggles, his tiny hand in mine. I’d thrown away a love that was real for a mirage. Desperate, I called James, begging to reconnect. He was polite but firm: “You’re Ethan’s mum, so you can see him. But us? That’s over, Sarah. You made your choice.”

I’m back in London now, in a small flat near James and Ethan. I see my son weekly, and his hugs are the only thing keeping me grounded. But every visit stings—James is kind but distant, a stranger where my husband once stood. I want to fix this, to rebuild what I broke, but he’s clear: there’s no going back. I don’t blame him, but it hurts.

I’m trying to piece myself together. Therapy helps, forcing me to face my selfishness and the fantasy I chased. I’ve scaled back at work, trading glitzy events for quiet evenings reflecting on who I want to be. I’m learning to forgive myself, but it’s slow, and the guilt lingers like a shadow.

Has anyone been here? How do you heal a wound you caused? I’d love to hear your stories or advice—how to move forward, maybe even earn James’s trust again, if that’s possible. For now, I’m focusing on being a better mum to Ethan and hoping time softens the pain.