My back hit the bathroom wall. I sank slowly into the corner, feeling the cold, hard tiles through my dark jeans. My ears buzzed as a mixture of wine and disbelief churned in the pit of my stomach. Hot tears stung my contacts and poured down my face. “Oh my God, no,” I kept repeating as if in a trance.
He stared at me with wide eyes and a pale face, contrasting the bright purple bathroom walls. The color was “crocus,” to be exact. It was one of many color choices we had debated when buying our home a few years back, the house we now shared with our three children, tucked away in their bedrooms just feet from the drama that would soon blow their little lives to pieces.
“Why?” he had asked me. It was just one simple word that sent me to the floor. Why did I want to see his phone? “I don’t have it,” he answered. “It must be out in the car. Why don’t you go get it,” he suggested, knowing full well it was in his back pocket.
We stayed in the bathroom for what seemed like hours; I wasn’t budging. “Show me your phone, or you can leave tomorrow,” I said. “We’re not leaving this bathroom until I see that phone.”
Earlier that night, I glanced at him across my neighbor’s perfectly remodeled kitchen, the recessed lighting glistening off the marble countertops. He had looked down at his cell phone, and a tiny, knowing smile lit up his face. I stopped my conversation with a friend mid-sentence, my hand wrapped around a giant glass of pinot grigio. I just knew.
“I told him how lonely I am,” I confessed to my friend earlier that night as the wine started flowing. “He’s been acting strange lately,” I said to another. Together, we decided it was all in my head: I was worried about our 9-year-old son who had started having seizures out of nowhere. Seven years earlier, our youngest son had been born with a rare digestive disease and had gone under anesthesia nine times before kindergarten. We also had an 11-year-old daughter and a scrappy new puppy. Life was hectic.
“You’ve had a lot on your plate,” they assured me. “Everything will be fine.”
After the bathroom standoff, it was his turn to cry. He collapsed face-first on our bed, hiding his shame in our puffy blue and white comforter—a wedding gift from his best friend. First came the tears. Then the admission. And finally, the infamous, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” Next, he delivered the final crushing blow: “I can’t talk to you like I can with her.”
I wondered in disbelief—when had he tried to talk to me? He had been ice-cold and distant for months, burying himself in work even more than usual. Last Halloween, I had walked our kids around the neighborhood with the other dads because he was “working late.” Even my son’s surgeon started to ask, “Where’s your husband?”
My thoughts raced to the future. How are we going to tell the kids? What is my mother going to say? My sister is going to kill him.
It was after 5 AM when I finally laid down on the sectional in our playroom. I was wide awake and completely numb from hours of weeping and questioning myself. Before retreating to bed, I could hear his loud snores coming from our bedroom. Someone was able to sleep.
The following day, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and studied myself closely—but this time through his eyes. I ran my fingers through my dark, unruly hair and wondered if I should have worn more makeup around the house. If only I were thinner, prettier, a better cook, kept the house neater. Sadly, I thought these things would have made a difference. But as the years passed, I realized that whoever my ex-husband chose to marry, no one would ever satisfy the gaping hole in his selfish heart.
The next few weeks were a blur. If you’ve seen the show Yellowstone, there’s a scene where the lead female character stumbles out of an office building, shellshocked and destroyed. She’s just survived an explosion. It’s as if she’s there but not really there. That’s exactly how I navigated the ensuing weeks, aimlessly shuffling through the aisles of the supermarket, auto-piloting my kids to and from hockey practice, even hosting a birthday party. I did all I could to maintain normalcy in my kids’ lives—even if I was a middle-aged zombie-woman whose life had just imploded.
When you experience infidelity, your self-esteem goes down the toilet. Or was it down there to begin with, swirling around, trying to figure out if I was ever good enough? My husband’s cheating left me feeling ugly, rejected, naive, and embarrassed. But, worst of all, I felt like I had lost my gauge on human beings, which shook me to the core. How could I trust a man again if I never saw this coming?
When the dust settled, I hopped aboard the crazy rollercoaster of modern dating. Still broken and deeply wounded, I made my share of bad decisions, getting involved with men who helped validate every thought in my head that “all men are pigs.” I was utterly lost and craved love and attention.
“Oh, so you weren’t having sex with him,” a guy once offered as an explanation for the infidelity. False.
“Who would cheat on you?” asked another.
“Look the other way, and get a boyfriend,” said a close friend.
Another insisted she would have thrown all his clothes on the front lawn and burnt them.
“In front of my kids and neighbors?” I cringed in response.
Everyone processes divorce differently. Most are quick to find a reason why things went wrong and how I should pick up the pieces of my life. Some friends distanced themselves altogether like I’d developed some kind of catchy disease. In retrospect, I think a lot of the behavior stemmed from fear. Somehow, they thought: “How can I not be like her so my husband won’t cheat on me?”
Luckily, for every friend I lost, I gained two more. And my existing true friendships strengthened to the soul-sister level. When I think of the support I’ve received since that night in the bathroom, I picture my friends and family intertwining their hands to give me a collective “ten fingers” or “boost,” like you’d get as a child to hop a fence or climb a tree—and it was a lift I desperately needed.
Life Beyond Betrayal
I once read that it takes two people to destroy a marriage. Whether this is true or not, a big part of my healing and growth has come from examining my relationships (before and after marriage) and figuring out what role I played in their demise. I should have communicated more as the years passed and the kids kept coming. And, I should have demanded more help rather than giving my ex-husband the “sole breadwinner” pass.
A therapist once said his infidelity was my “off-ramp” from an unhappy marriage. While I may not have been blissfully happy, I never would have initiated a divorce. My kids were little, we were besieged with several of their health issues, and we seemed to get along. But I did feel very alone; our connection wasn’t as deep as it could have been, and we never operated as a team. It took his infidelity for me to realize how unfulfilled I really was. Sometimes, we settle for less in marriage because we simply don’t believe we’re worth more.
As much as my ex-husband hurt me, the truth is, many stories I’ve heard about marital infidelity have a common theme: one or two wounded people trying to raise little humans in a world of intense financial pressure, unrealistic expectations of “having it all,” and countless temptations—whether at work, in everyday life, or the world of social media. It doesn’t justify betrayal, but when too much emotional distance grows between you and your spouse, it can make room for someone else to step in.
Now would be the perfect time to tell you about some amazing person who has swept me off my feet. But that’s not how this story ends (not yet, anyway). After undergoing extensive therapy, reading numerous self-help books, and listening to countless podcasts, I began to make better choices. I even fell deeply in and out of love with some good, solid men whose baggage didn’t mesh well with mine.
And, as the years have passed, my relationship with my ex-husband has slowly repaired. Our co-parenting bond is like the old bureau from my childhood that sits in my bedroom—dented, chipped, and relocated—but somehow, it still stands sturdy. A solid co-parenting relationship is nearly impossible to achieve in some divorces, so I am grateful that despite it all, my three children are now thriving and truly happy. That’s my proudest accomplishment. The rest will figure itself out.
If life directs you toward an unexpected exit, take it. There will undoubtedly be bumps in the road; you may even pop a tire or two. You might get pulled over for going too fast or yelled at for moving too slowly. No matter what, keep going. What lies ahead may be unknown, but the prospect of finding the joy you deserve is worth far more than the pain you left behind.
Carly Hayes is a freelance writer from the Northeast. After earning a master’s degree in journalism, she worked as a marketing and PR writer in the healthcare and tech industries. Carly enjoys researching and writing on various topics—from personal growth and relationships to complex software. She currently lives near the ocean with her three young adults and rescue pup.