Last night, I left my job in the hopes of saving my marriage. Yet today, I can’t tell if I haven’t lost both in the process.
I had been with that company for nearly eight years. I joined not long after my wedding, and for years that office felt like the bedrock of my lifesteady wages, predictable hours, something to count on. My wife, Eleanor, always understood how much that job meant to me. We even daydreamed about buying a small flat in Reading with what we managed to save. I never imagined the place would become the scene of the mistake that brought us here.
The woman I was unfaithful with turned up six months ago, like someone from a Sunday afternoon show you cant quite remember. At first, nothing seemed out of place. She was assigned to the desk beside mine, asked simple questions about deadlines, needed someone to look over her workall the usual things for someone finding their feet. Slowly, our lunches together began, at first with others, then somehow we drifted into the habit of eating just the two of us. She confided about rows with her boyfriend, doubts about the future, and those yawning late-night fears. I listenedmore and more often. I started deleting messages just in case, muting my phone as I opened the front door, claiming meetings ran late when they hadnt.
It happened on a Tuesday that dissolves in the memory like mist on a cricket ground. We were both working late, it was neither planned nor romantic, but it was deliberate. I understood what I was doing, knew it was wrong. That evening I returned home, kissed Eleanor, carrying on as usual. Thats what weighs most heavily on me now.
She found out weeks later. We were in the bedroom; she picked up my phone to check for a plumbers number, and what she read wasnt meant for her eyes. She asked me straight out; I didnt know how to respond. She sat in silence for a few minutes, then quietly asked me to tell the whole story. And I did. We didnt sleep in the same bed that night.
For days after, our house was thick with tension. She wanted specificswhen, where, how many times, if I was still seeing her. I answered as best I could. Then, one evening, she said something I wont ever forget:
I dont know if I can forgive you, but I know I cant live with the thought of you seeing her at work every day.
Which led to the question of my job.
She drew a line in the sand. She told me she couldnt force mebut that, for her own sanity, she needed to feel safe. As long as I went through those glass doors each morning, shed never stop hurting. Gave me a choice: leave the job, or accept that she would leave. She didnt shout. Didnt cry. That, somehow, was even worse.
I spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, working out outgoings, savings, the bills for our little terraced house in Slough. Leaving meant losing my income instantly, no guarantee of finding something again soon. But if I stayed, I was fairly certain our marriage wouldnt last. Yesterday, I spoke with my manager, handed in my notice and left the company with a feeling like walking through fogrelief tangled with dread.
I told Eleanor that evening. I expected her embrace, perhaps some reassurance. She thanked me, softly, said she understood the gesture but that it didnt mean everything was fixed, or that trust could simply return. She needs time. She promised nothing.
Today, I sit in the bleak morning, without work and with a marriage on hold.
I dont know if I have only lost my job…
or if I am losing my wife as well.
