-A Lie
I decided to focus on family, choosing to believe and have faith that everything else would fall into place. I wasn't comfortable-or good-at lying to her.
So, when Samantha surprised me one day by swallowing her pride and asking directly if a...
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For years, I thought about leaving but never went so far as to plan the details. I became adept at suppressing those feelings, convincing myself they didn't require action. I didn't pursue love elsewhere—lessons learned from the affair with Pippa—but I often fantasized about being in a different relationship.
I suppose that's how it happened again. I'd meet someone, feel an attraction, and eventually find myself daydreaming about her. It was innocent—or so I told myself. What harm could there be in entertaining thoughts? I pacified the loneliness by relishing those fleeting fantasies. Eventually, they always faded.
Until Nina.
What might seem like a thin justification for an unforgivable practice in a married man, I mention only to frame the long period of passivity that preceded my second affair. In truth, I was already primed to love Nina long before we met.
The Stories We Tell
So, what kept me with Samantha for nearly twenty years of marriage? Some of the best moments of my life were with her and the boys. But the last few years were, at best, sad.
Was I just biding my time, waiting for the right person to come along? I'm not sure I believed that person existed. The biggest deterrent to leaving, without a doubt, was the children.
Our lives consist of the stories we tell ourselves. These stories begin in childhood and gradually shape our beliefs about who we are. Our experiences—and, more importantly, our reactions to them—define our character. We form perceptions of our strengths and weaknesses, which influence our decisions. Along with other factors, those decisions determine who we're attracted to and who we fall in love with.
Your story may evolve with age, but one constant in mine, since my earliest memories, was the focus on marriage and family. That focus, without question, stemmed from my mom and how we were raised.
At some point, though, I lost the ability to reconcile the story I told myself with the reality of my marriage. I imagined Samantha and me as empty nesters, living a life of isolation and pretense—a partnership built on shared performances at family events or when the children visited. I stopped believing in "together forever" and instead began telling myself, at least until the youngest turns eighteen.
Even that narrative shifted—unsurprisingly, after my involvement with Nina. I began envisioning hypothetical future conversations where my grown children admitted they wished we had divorced sooner, saying our decision to stay together had only made their lives miserable.
Again, it's all in the stories we tell ourselves.
What I didn't foresee was the extent of Samantha's reaction when I finally shared my desire to divorce.
