I always believed I had my life firmly in hand. A secure job, my own home in the suburbs, a marriage that had lasted for over a decade, and neighbours I’d known since we first moved to this quiet corner of Surrey. What no one realisednot even my wifewas that I, too, had a secret life.
For years, Id been meeting other women outside my marriage. I told myself these encounters meant nothing, that as long as I came home at the end of the day, no one was harmed. Id convinced myself I was safe, clever, beyond suspicion. Guilt never snagged at me. I wandered about in that false calm of someone convinced they know precisely how to play, without ever losing.
My wife, meanwhile, was reserved and gentle. Her days played out according to a routineschool runs, shopping at Sainsburys, pleasant greetings for every neighbour on our street. On the surface, her world appeared simple and ordered. Our next-door neighbour, Mr. Turner, was the sort you see each day: borrowing the lawnmower, putting out the bins, exchanging a nod or a wave over the fence. Hed never struck me as a threat. Never once did it cross my mind hed venture where he wasnt invited.
I came and went, travelling up to London for work, and trusted everything at home remained comfortably the same until my return.
Everything unravelled the day our neighbourhood was hit by a spate of burglaries. The residents association asked everyone to check their security cameras. Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to have a look through ours. I wasnt looking for anything in particular, just the odd suspicious face perhaps, nothing more. I skimmed through hours of footageforward, then backward.
And then I saw something entirely unexpected.
There was my wife, entering through the side door at hours when I was away. Moments later, Mr. Turner followed her inside. Not onceagain, and again. Dates. Times. A pattern glaringly clear.
I kept watching.
All those years I thought I was the one with everything under control, but shed been living a double life too. The difference was, the hurt I felt in that moment defied description. It wasnt like the grief Id felt when my father passed awayan all-consuming, sorrowful ache. This was something else.
It was shame.
Utter humiliation.
It was as if my dignity was stuck inside those camera recordings.
I confronted her. I showed her the timestamps, the videos, the undeniable reality. She didnt deny it. She told me it had started at a time when Id become distant, when shed felt alone, and one thing had simply led to another. She didnt apologise right away. She just asked me not to judge her.
And right then, I realised perhaps the cruelest irony of all: I had no moral right to judge.
I had cheated too.
I had lied too.
But it didnt make the pain any less.
The hardest part wasnt the affair itself.
It was realising that while I thought I was the only one playing this game, both of us were living the same lieunder the same roof, with the same audacity.
Id mistaken secrecy for strength.
But really, Id just been naïve.
It hurt my pride.
It hurt the image I had of myself.
But worse, it wounded me to be the last to know what was happening in my own home.
I dont know what will become of our marriage now. Im not writing this to excuse myself, or to blame her. I only know some wounds are like nothing youve ever felt before.
Should I forgive her?
She still doesnt know I was unfaithful too.
