I’ve Read Countless Stories of Women Who Have Cheated—While I Try Not to Judge, There’s Something I Truly Can’t Understand. Not Because I’m Better Than Anyone, but Because Infidelity Has Simply Never Tempted Me I’m 34, Married, and Living an Ordinary Life: I Hit the Gym Five Times a Week, Watch My Diet, and Take Care of Myself. With Long, Straight Hair and a Style I Love, I Know I’m Attractive—People Tell Me So, and the Way Men Look at Me Confirms It At the Gym, It’s Not Unusual for Men to Strike Up Conversations—Some Ask About Exercises, Others Disguise Comments as Compliments, and Some Are More Direct. The Same Happens When I’m Out for Drinks with Friends—Men Approach, Insist, and Ask If I’m on My Own. I Don’t Pretend Not to Notice—On the Contrary, I See It, but I’ve Never Crossed the Line. Not Out of Fear, Simply Because I Don’t Want To My Husband Is a Doctor—a Cardiologist—So He Works Long Hours, Often Leaving Before Dawn and Coming Home After Dinner or Later. Most Days, I Spend Nearly the Whole Day Alone at Home. We Have a Daughter, and I Take Care of Her, Our Home, and My Routine. Realistically, I Have Plenty of Opportunities to Do Whatever I Want Without Anyone Knowing—Yet I’ve Never Even Thought About Using That Time to Cheat When I’m on My Own, I Fill My Mind—I Work Out, Read, Tidy Up, Watch Series, Cook, or Go for Walks. I Don’t Sit Around Searching for What’s Missing or Needing Outside Validation. I’m Not Claiming My Marriage Is Perfect—It Isn’t. We Argue, Disagree, and Sometimes Feel Tired. But Underneath It All, My Honesty Remains I Don’t Live with Constant Suspicions About My Husband Either—I Trust Him. I Know His Routine, His Way of Thinking, His Character. I Don’t Spend My Time Checking His Phone or Dreaming Up Scenarios. That Sense of Trust Brings Peace. When You’re Not Looking for an Escape, You Don’t Need Open Doors All the Time So When I Read Stories About Cheating—Not With Judgement, But with Genuine Puzzlement—I Wonder: Is It Really About Temptation, Attractiveness, Free Time or the Attention of Others? For Me, It Was Never Even an Option. Not Because I Can’t, But Because I Don’t Want to Be That Kind of Person—and That Brings Me Peace What Are Your Thoughts on This Topic?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 2

I have wandered through the misty corridors of so many storiestales of women who wandered from their partnersand while I strive not to pass judgement, there remains a mystery I simply cannot unravel. Its not that I consider myself more virtuous than anyone. The truth is, infidelity has never held any sway over me, never tempted me from my path.

I drift at thirty-four, married, living a life as ordinary as a row of terraced houses on a sleepy London street. I trundle off to the gym five times a week, minding what I eat, relishing the feeling of being in tune with my body. My hair streams long and straight, and I find pleasure in polishing my appearanceif that means anything at all in a world shaped by fog and whispers. People have told me I am attractive; I see it too, in the way eyes linger on me as I pass.

At the gym, the scene replays like a dream with odd edgesa man or two materialise from the weights, floating over with casual questions about squats or sending compliments that shimmer, not quite real. Some are bolder, their intentions clear as a sunrise over Yorkshire. The same thing unspools on nights out with friends, when strangers sidle up, persistent, asking if Im alonenot noticing how the walls fold in and the drinks taste of something unplaceable. Ive never pretended these things arent happening. I see them. But I have never stepped over the invisible threshold. Not out of fear, but because I simply dont wish to.

My husband, Henry, is a doctora cardiologistpulled by his work into the predawn dark and back again long after the streetlights shimmer through the fog. Most days, I am alone in the house for hours, the tick of the clock the only sound. We have a daughter, and I care for her, tend the home, spiral through my routines as if I were waltzing with my own shadow. I could, in truth, do anythingopportunities slither in and out of the shadows, unnoticed by anyone else. And yet, I have never dreamed of using those spaces for betrayal.

When the quiet pools thick around me, I fill it. I work out, I read, I fold laundry with the meticulousness of a countryside butler, I binge strange British dramas, I rustle up odd but comforting suppers, I wander the park with a mug of tea cooling too quickly in the air. I dont sit, probing myself for emptiness, or yearning for someone elses validation. Our marriage is not perfect, drizzled with the British rain of disagreements, exhaustion, and minor resentments. But beneath these things runs something steady: my honesty.

I dwell not in suspicion. I trust Henry. I know his mind, his patterns, the flavour of his jokes, the textured way he sees the world. I dont ransack his mobile, never twisting myself with invented scenarios. This calm has a power, too. When youre not hunting for exits, you dont crave unlocked doors, not even in your dreams.

So when I stumble upon stories of infidelitymy heart open, yet always bemusedI sense that temptation, beauty, free time, attention: theyre not the whole of it. For me, it has never been a choice waiting to be made. Not because I couldnt, but because I refuse to be that version of myself. And in this, I drift easy as a leaf on the Thames, at peace.

What do you make of it?

I’ll Never Be Able to Be Your Mum or to Love You, But I’ll Take Care of You – Please Don’t Be Upset, Because Life with Us Will Be Better Than the Orphanage. Today Was a Hard Day: Ivan Laid His Sister to Rest, Troubled Though She Was, She Was Still Family. They Hadn’t Seen Each Other for Nearly Five Years, and Now This Tragedy. Vicky Did Her Best to Support Her Husband, Trying to Take Most of the Burden Herself. But After the Funeral, Another Important Matter Remained: Irina – Ivan’s Sister – Had Left Behind a Young Son. All the Relatives Gathered that Day to Say Goodbye, and Without Discussion, Shifted All Responsibility onto Irina’s Younger Brother. Who Else, But His Uncle, Should Care for the Boy? It Seemed Obvious That This Was the Only Right Solution. Vicky Understood, and Didn’t Object, Yet She Had One Reservation: She Had Never Wanted Children. Not Her Own, Certainly Not Someone Else’s. She Made That Decision Long Ago. She Had Honestly Told Ivan Before Their Wedding, and He’d Brushed It Off – Who Thinks Seriously About Children in Their Early Twenties? “No Kids – We’ll Live For Ourselves,” They’d Agreed Ten Years Ago. Now, Vicky Faced Accepting a Child Who Was Not Her Own; There Was No Choice. Ivan Would Never Let His Nephew Go to an Orphanage, and Vicky Herself Couldn’t Bring Up That Option. She Knew She’d Never Be Able to Love This Child, Nor Ever Take the Place of His Mum. The Boy Was Wise Beyond His Years, So Vicky Decided to Be Completely Honest. “Will, Where Would You Rather Live – With Us or in the Orphanage?” “I Want to Live at Home, Alone.” “But You Can’t – You’re Only Seven. So you have to choose.” “Then with Uncle Ivan.” “Okay, you’ll come with us. But there’s something you need to know. I won’t be able to be your mum or love you, but I’ll take care of you, and you mustn’t be upset. After all, being with us will still be better than the orphanage.” Some of the formalities sorted, they finally returned home. Vicky, believing she didn’t need to pretend to be the caring aunt after that conversation, resolved to simply look after the boy: feeding, laundry, helping with homework was easy enough, but caring with her heart was impossible. Young Will never forgot for a moment that he wasn’t loved and knew that, to avoid being sent to an orphanage, he had to behave well. At home, Will was given the smallest room, and it needed redecorating. Choosing wallpaper, furniture, and decor was Vicky’s passion; she eagerly dived into the project of making a child’s room. Will chose the wallpaper, the rest Vicky picked. She spared no expense – she wasn’t stingy, she simply didn’t like children – and the room turned out beautiful. Will was thrilled! He only wished his mum could see his new room. Oh, if only Vicky could love him! She was kind and good, just not fond of children. He pondered this many nights before sleep. He took joy in everything, every little thing. Circus, zoo, amusement parks – he showed such delight that Vicky found herself enjoying their outings too. She liked surprising him and watching his reactions. In August, Vicky and Ivan planned to holiday by the seaside, with a close relative looking after Will for ten days. But at the last moment, Vicky changed her mind; she desperately wanted Will to see the sea. Ivan was surprised but secretly pleased, for he had grown very close to the boy. Will was almost happy! If only he were loved. Still, he’d see the sea! The trip was a success – warm water, juicy fruit, great moods. Of course, all good things end; holiday over, normal life returned: work, home, school. Yet something in their little world had changed, a new feeling appeared – movement, a trace of joy, the hint of a miracle. And a miracle happened. Vicky returned from the sea carrying new life. How did this happen, after all those years avoiding such surprises? Vicky didn’t know what to do. Should she tell her husband, or handle it alone? Since Will’s arrival, she doubted Ivan was truly child-free – he adored the boy, took him to football, played together. No, Vicky had already gone through one ordeal, and was not ready for another. She made her decision alone. She was sitting in the clinic when a call came from the school: Will had been rushed to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Everything had to wait. She raced into the hospital; Will lay pale and shivering. Seeing Vicky, he burst into tears. “Vicky, please don’t go, I’m scared. Just this once, can you be my mum for today? Please, just for one day, and I’ll never ask again.” He clung to her hand, tears streaming. It seemed like a real panic attack; Vicky had never seen him cry except at the funeral. Now he was inconsolable. Vicky pressed his hand to her cheek. “My boy, hold on a little. The doctor will come soon and it’ll be alright. I’m here, and I won’t leave.” Oh, how she loved him in that moment! This bright-eyed boy was her whole world. ‘Child-free’ – what nonsense. Tonight, she’d tell Ivan about the baby. She knew, when Will squeezed her hand in pain, that this was the right thing. Ten years passed. Today Vicky celebrates a milestone birthday – 45. Guests, congratulations. But, over her coffee, she is swept by memories. How fast time flies; youth gone, young womanhood passed. Now she is a wife, and a mother of two wonderful children. Will is nearly eighteen, Sophie is ten. Vicky has no regrets. Well, only one: those words about not loving Will. She wishes with all her heart he never remembers them, never recalls them. Since that day in the hospital, she tried to tell Will she loves him as often as she could, but she never quite dared to ask if he remembers those first, painful admissions.

My Husband Invited His Mum to Live With Us for the Entire Month of January, So I Packed My Bags and Moved Out One day, he told me—completely serious—that his mother would be living with us for January. Not just a few days, but the whole month. He explained it like it was normal and already decided: her flat was being renovated, it was noisy and dusty, she’s older and has high blood pressure—he couldn’t possibly leave her there. He didn’t even ask what I thought. Just “informed” me. I sat and listened, quiet panic rising inside. For me, January wasn’t just another month—it was my chance to breathe after a hectic work season. I’d promised myself rest: time to shut off phones, curl up with a book, watch films, and enjoy silence. Only now, he was talking about someone who cannot stand silence—a person who treats your home as her own, constantly re-arranging things, commenting, instructing, questioning, insisting, explaining, and never pausing. She never accepts closed doors or understands boundaries. In her previous visits, everything was changed—furniture, cupboards, rules, advice, criticism. Nothing stayed “as it was.” And I… I just didn’t have the energy for it. I tried to explain calmly: we’d agreed on a quiet month; I needed rest; I couldn’t spend all of January with someone who would comment on everything I do—what I eat, what I wear, how I move, how much I sleep, what I watch, think, or say. I couldn’t cope with constant noise. He frowned and started talking about “selfishness.” How could he say no to his mother? How we needed to be good people. There was enough space—our flat was big, I could just stay in my own room. And the worst—he’d already bought her ticket and confirmed everything. So not only had he decided for both of us, but he’d made it so there was no going back. That’s when something clicked in me—not acceptance, but a decision. The next days, I didn’t make a fuss. I cooked for the holidays, tidied, kept calm. He seemed to think I’d “given in.” Became kind, bought me a gift, acted caring. But I was already different. While he watched telly, I browsed listings, choosing a place where I could finally breathe. On the second day after the holidays, he got up early to welcome his mum, thinking everything was fine. Before closing the door, he asked me to make breakfast—“something hot”—since she’d be hungry after her journey. I nodded and smiled. And as soon as I was alone, I took out my suitcase. My things had been packed in advance—clothes, toiletries, laptop, books, favourite blanket, chargers. I didn’t take everything. I took my peace. I moved quickly and quietly—like someone not running away, but saving herself. I left my keys, and a card for household expenses so there’d be no “there’s nothing to eat” excuses. I wrote a brief note—no accusations, no explanations. Just facts. And I left. I rented a small, bright flat in a quiet neighbourhood. Paid for the whole month. It was expensive, yes—I dipped into my savings meant for something else. But honestly, nothing’s more valuable than your nerves. While I unpacked, my phone exploded with calls—again and again. When I finally picked up, he was hysterical: “Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “How will I explain?” “What a disgrace!” But I was calm—for the first time in ages. I simply explained I hadn’t stolen anything; I’d moved out for a month; I couldn’t be in the same home with someone who would turn my rest into punishment. Now nobody’s bothered—his mum was happy, he’s with her, and I’m finally resting. I’d come back once she left. He yelled it was “childish”—that people would gossip, this was “family time.” I listened and thought: family time isn’t a prison. It’s not “you must endure because that’s how it is.” Family time means respect. I switched off my phone. The first days were like therapy—sleeping in, reading, soaking in baths, bingeing shows, ordering food I normally “shouldn’t.” No one telling me how to live. No one entering my room without knocking. No conversations forced on me when silence was all I needed. After a few days, I switched my phone back on. He called—his voice no longer triumphant, but tired, defeated. He told me what it was like living with his mum: waking before dawn, her thumping around, noisily doing “helpful” things, frying fish so the whole flat stank, washing and ironing “her way,” never stopping talking, not allowing him to watch telly in peace, checking up on him, questioning and controlling until she cried if he didn’t give attention. I didn’t mock him. I simply didn’t save him. He asked me to come back—said he needed a “lightning rod.” That’s when I realised: he didn’t want me for me. He wanted me as a shield, someone to take the hit for him. I said, “No.” Once, I returned to fetch something I’d forgotten. I walked in unannounced, and immediately felt the tension—smell of medicine and burnt food, TV blaring, strange shoes in the hall, clothes that weren’t mine, the sense that my home was no longer mine. There she was, seated comfortably as if she’d always belonged, greeting me with accusations: that I’d abandoned them, was a “bad wife,” left my husband “starving”—and that I was to blame for everything, including the dust she’d searched for behind shelves. He was different now—stooped, exhausted, grey. When he saw me, his eyes sparkled with a hope that hurt to see. He whispered, “Take me with you, let’s leave, let’s escape.” I looked at him and told him the truth: I couldn’t rescue him from his lesson. He’d invited her. He decided without me—he had to face the consequences. If I rescued him now, he’d never learn. I left him—not out of cruelty, but care for our future. Two weeks later, the month was up. I came home. The house was quiet, sparkling clean. He sat alone—like someone home from a long battle. For once, he didn’t smile right away. He just hugged me and said, “Forgive me.” And for the first time, I heard understanding—not excuses. He understood my boundaries weren’t whims. This wasn’t me “whining.” Our home is ours—no one should stay for a month without both of us agreeing. Loving your parent is one thing, but living under constant criticism and control is another. He said he’d never make such decisions alone again. And I believed him, because this time he didn’t say it just to get me back—he said it because he’d been through what I refused to endure for him. We sat together that evening—in total silence. No telly. No phones. Just the peace I’d dreamed of. Later, a message arrived—his mum had ideas about visiting again in the summer. I looked at him. He laughed nervously, then calmly replied: no can do; we’re busy; we have plans; it won’t happen. That’s when I realised—this isn’t just a story about a holiday. This is a story about boundaries. About how sometimes you have to leave your own home to save it. And if someone doesn’t learn their lesson, they’ll repeat it and expect you to keep paying the price. 🤔 What do you think: in this situation, is it right to “keep the peace,” or should you stand firm and set boundaries—even if it shakes up the relationship for a while?

I Can’t Be Your Mum and I Can’t Promise to Love You, But I Will Care for You and You Mustn’t Be Upset—You’ll Still Be Better Off With Us Than in the Children’s Home It Was a Tough Day for Ivan, Who Laid His Sister to Rest—Estranged Yet Still Family, Five Years Apart and Then This Tragedy. Vicky Did All She Could to Support Her Husband, Taking on Most of the Arrangements Herself. But After the Funeral, Another Important Matter Awaited: Ivan’s Late Sister Irina Had Left Behind a Young Son. All the Relatives Who Came to Say Goodbye Quickly Decided the Best Solution Was for Irina’s Younger Brother to Take Responsibility. After All, Who Else But His Uncle Should Look After the Boy? It Wasn’t Debated—Everyone Simply Assumed That Was the Only Right Thing to Do. Vicky Understood and, Truthfully, Didn’t Object—Except for One Thing: She Never Wanted Children, Not Her Own and Especially Not Another Person’s. She’d Made Her Decision Long Ago and Honestly Told Ivan Before They Married, but He’d Taken It Lightly—Who Thinks About Kids in Their Early Twenties? No Children, Just Us—That Had Been Their Plan Ten Years Ago. But Now She Had To Accept Someone Else’s Child. There Was No Alternative. Ivan Could Never Put His Nephew in Care, and Vicky Wouldn’t Even Dare Suggest It. She Knew She Could Never Love This Boy or Replace His Mum. The Lad Was Mature Beyond His Years, So Vicky Decided to Be Honest With Him. “Vlad, Where Would You Rather Live—With Us or in the Children’s Home?” “I Want to Live at Home, On My Own.” “But You Can’t Stay at Home Alone. You’re Only Seven. You Have to Choose.” “Then With Uncle Ivan.” “Alright, You’ll Come with Us, but I Need to Tell You Something. I Can’t Be Your Mum and I Can’t Promise to Love You, But I Will Care for You and You Mustn’t Be Upset—You’ll Still Be Better Off With Us Than the Children’s Home.” Some Formalities Settled, They Finally Returned Home. Vicky Felt She No Longer Needs to Pretend to Be the Caring Aunt—She’d Feed, Wash, and Help With Homework, But Pouring Out Her Heart Was Another Matter. And Young Vlad Never Forgot For a Moment That He Wasn’t Loved—To Avoid Being Sent to a Home, He Had to Behave. At Home, Vlad Was Given the Smallest Room, Which Needed Refurbishing for Him. Choosing Wallpaper and Decor Was Vicky’s Passion. She Dove into the Project with Enthusiasm. Vlad Got to Pick Out the Wallpaper, While Vicky Selected Everything Else. She Was Generous—Not Stingy, Just Not Fond of Children—So the Room Turned Out Beautiful. Vlad Was Delighted—If Only His Mum Could See His New Room! Oh, If Only Vicky Could Love Him. She Was Good and Kind—Just Not a Children Person. Vlad Often Thought About This Before Falling Asleep. He Found Joy in Everything—The Circus, Zoo, Theme Park—His Innocent Enthusiasm Even Made Vicky Enjoy Their Outings. She Loved Surprising Him and Watching His Reaction. In August, She and Ivan Planned a Beach Holiday, With Vlad to Stay Ten Days with Another Close Relative. But At the Last Minute, Vicky Had a Change of Heart—She Suddenly Wanted Vlad to See the Sea. Ivan Was Surprised but Secretly Pleased—He’d Grown Very Attached to the Boy. Vlad Was Nearly Happy! If Only He Were Loved—Well, At Least He’d See the Sea. The Holiday Was a Success—Warm Sea, Juicy Fruit, Great Moods. But All Good Things End, and So Did Their Holiday. Life Returned to Normal—Work, Home, School. But Something Had Changed in Their Little World; A New Feeling Had Emerged—A Hum of Life, a Whisper of Joy, a Glimmer of Wonder. And Then a Miracle Happened—Vicky Returned from the Coast Expecting a New Life. How Had This Happened, After Years of Avoiding Such Surprises? Vicky Didn’t Know What To Do. Should She Tell Her Husband or Decide Alone? Since Vlad Arrived, She Wasn’t Sure Ivan Was Truly Child-Free—He Was Devoted to the Boy, Always Involving Him, Even Taking Him to Football Matches. Vicky Had Managed One Feat—She Wasn’t Sure She Was Ready for a Second. She Decided Alone. She Was Waiting at the Clinic When a Call Came From School—Vlad Had Been Rushed to Hospital with Suspected Appendicitis. Everything Was Put On Hold. She Raced to A&E. Vlad Was Pale and Shivering. Seeing Vicky, He Burst Into Tears. “Vicky, Please Don’t Leave. I’m Scared—Just For Today, Please Be My Mum. Just One Day, That’s All. I Won’t Ever Ask Again.” He Clung Tightly To Her Hand, Crying Uncontrollably—A True Breakdown. She’d Never Seen Him Cry, Not Even at the Funeral. Now the Dam Had Burst. Vicky Pressed His Hand to Her Cheek. “My Darling, Hang On—a Doctor Will Be Here Soon. I’m Right Here, and I Won’t Leave.” God, She Loved Him So Much in That Moment! This Boy With the Wonder in His Eyes Was Everything to Her. Child-Free—What Nonsense. Tonight She’d Tell Ivan About Their Baby. The Decision Came As Vlad Squeezed Her Hand in Pain. Ten Years Later. Today Is Vicky’s Special Day—Her Forty-Fifth Birthday. Guests, Congratulations—But For Now, Over Coffee, She Let Memories Wash Over Her. How Quickly the Years Have Flown. Youth Gone—And She’s Now a Woman, a Happy Wife and Mum to Two Wonderful Children. Vlad Is Nearly Eighteen, Sophie Ten. She Has No Regrets. Well, Maybe Just One—Those Words About Not Loving. How She Wishes Vlad Didn’t Remember Them—Wishes He’d Forget and Never Recall. Since That Hospital Night, She’s Tried to Tell Him She Loves Him As Often As Possible. But Whether He Still Remembers Her First Admission, She’s Never Had the Courage to Ask.