Torn Between Affairs and Home: Can I Save My Family?
Torn Between Affairs and Home: Can I Save My Family?
I’ve been married to Sarah for nine years, and from the outside, we look like the perfect family. Two kids—a boy and a girl—living in a cozy suburban house in Portland. Our backyard’s got a swing set, and Sarah’s always got fresh flowers on the dining table. But the truth? For eight of those years, I’ve been lying to her. I’ve been in love with someone else.
It started at work. Claire, a colleague 11 years older than me, was just a friend at first. We clicked instantly—same sense of humor, same love for old rock bands. During a company retreat in the Cascades, we ended up talking late into the night by the campfire. She grabbed my hand, and something electric shot through me. I told myself it was nothing, just a fleeting moment. But soon, we were texting every day, calling each other “babe” instead of “hey, you.”
I felt alive with Claire, like I was 20 again. She listened to me, made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in years. Meanwhile, Sarah was at home, cooking dinner, folding laundry, keeping our lives together. I didn’t see it then, but I was already slipping away from her, lost in a fantasy I thought I deserved.
Things with Claire got intense fast. Late-night calls turned into stolen moments after work, and I was hooked. I’d come home to Sarah, who was pregnant with our second kid, and barely notice her. One night, she found my phone—texts from Claire, full of heart emojis and promises. Sarah’s face went pale, and she clutched her stomach, gasping. She was rushed to the hospital, at risk of losing the baby. I should’ve been there, holding her hand. Instead, I was numb, obsessed with Claire, barely checking in on Sarah or our four-year-old son, Ethan.
I started taking Ethan to meet Claire. We’d grab ice cream, the three of us, like some twisted family. I told myself Sarah didn’t matter—she was fine, she’d cope. When we found out the baby was a girl, I became fixated on naming her after Claire. Sarah begged me to pick something else, saying it was a common name in her family already. I snapped, threatening divorce if she didn’t agree. She looked at me like I was a stranger, then packed a bag and went to my mom’s house.
To my shame, my mom didn’t believe her. She called Sarah dramatic, accusing her of making it all up. Meanwhile, Claire, caught up in our affair, left her husband. She called Sarah, pleading to “let me go” and insulting her as a wife. Sarah, already fragile, collapsed again, spending a month in the hospital. Our daughter was born, named by my mom—not Claire’s name. I didn’t even visit the hospital. Instead, I was with Claire, lost in a haze of selfish desire.
Looking back, I was a monster. Sarah was fighting for our family, and I was tearing it apart, too blinded by my own wants to see the wreckage I was causing.
After Sarah came home with our newborn daughter, I left for a month-long work trip to London. She cried as I packed, begging me not to go so soon after the birth. I brushed her off, my mind already on Claire. Overseas, I barely called home, spending hours on the phone with Claire instead, planning a future that didn’t include Sarah. But every time I came back to Portland, seeing Sarah juggle the kids, cook my favorite meals, and keep the house spotless, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “divorce.” I’d pick fights, hoping she’d leave first, but she stayed, steady as ever.
Four years ago, Sarah stopped fighting about Claire. She knew everything but kept being the perfect wife and mom. I’d eat dinner, texting Claire under the table, while Sarah talked about Ethan’s school or our daughter’s first words. Her voice would fade into the background, and I’d nod without listening. She’d look at me, her eyes tired but kind, and I’d feel a pang of something—guilt, maybe—but I’d push it down.
Then, a new complication. I reconnected with Rachel, an old high school acquaintance eight years older than me, recently divorced. We started texting, then meeting for coffee. She was warm, attentive, and I felt that same rush I did with Claire. I was juggling two affairs now, still coming home to Sarah’s care, leaving dishes for her to clean, never lifting a finger. I was living a double life, and Sarah was paying the price.
Lately, I’ve started to see it—how much Sarah’s endured. She’s asked for divorce a few times, but stays for the kids. She deserves better, and I’m starting to wonder if I can change before it’s too late.
I’m a mess. Eight years of cheating, of taking Sarah for granted, and now I’m tangled up with Claire and Rachel, unable to let either go. Sarah’s been my rock, raising our kids, keeping our home together, while I’ve been selfish, cruel even. I don’t deserve her. She’s told me to do whatever I want, just come home and be a dad, a husband. I haven’t even done that.
I’ve tried cutting things off with Claire and Rachel, but I’m weak, greedy. I want it all—the thrill of new love, the comfort of Sarah’s care. But seeing her face, the way she still smiles at our kids despite everything, it’s breaking me. I’m starting to realize how much I’ve hurt her, how much I’ve lost. I don’t know if I can fix this, or if she’d even want me to try.
I need to change. I owe it to Sarah, to Ethan, to our daughter. If you’re reading this, tell me how to wake up. Share your stories—how do you come back from betraying someone you love? I’m not asking for forgiveness, just a way to start making this right.
