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Two years ago, when I admitted to my husband, Bob, that I'd been unfaithful to him, I was prepared for every response except forgiveness.
For weeks I agonized about telling him the truth. The affair—a terrible, terrible mistake—was over; why did he need to know? Keeping it secret was best, I decided, but I wondered if my motivation was to spare Bob the pain or me the shame.
In the end, I had no choice: My emotions were a jumble of contradictions and wouldn't stay under wraps. Bob no longer believed me when I blamed my mood swings on PMS or my inability to return his hugs on my preoccupation with work. I had run out of lies.
At age forty-one, I was an unlikely candidate for an extramarital affair. Bob and I had been married for nineteen years and were active in our church. I'd just taken a job as a secretary in a large public relations firm in the hope of boosting our kids' college fund. Most of my friends already had found their way back to careers they'd put on hold when they married. For a long time I had envied their shop talk, expanding responsibilities, updated wardrobes, and the occasional splurges their salaries allowed. Now it's my turn, I thought.
Three days into my new job, I had my doubts. My skills were rusty, my confidence level nonexistent. After a couple of minutes in front of a computer screen, I wanted to wave a white flag and retreat home.
My supervisor quickly assigned Steve, the resident technology whiz, to bail me out. His duties included training new employees on the office information system, and he later joked that I was his greatest challenge. He recognized my insecurity and said all the right words of encouragement. He teased me just enough to help me relax, then proposed a crash course in data retrieval—whatever that was.
"Translation: Long hours and hard work," he cautioned. "But if you're willing, I'm willing."
He also was willing to schedule a couple Saturday morning sessions and reward my progress with follow-up lunches. He sent me funny messages via e-mail and insisted I respond so I could learn the right codes and commands. I eagerly participated in this silent dialogue and didn't stop several weeks later when his notes took on a decidedly personal tone.
He seemed to notice everything about me—my revamped hairstyle, a different cologne—and wasted no time in complimenting me. Although his attention set off internal warning signals, I ignored them. I was an adult, after all. I could halt our friendship any time it became uncomfortable.
On the surface, my marriage seemed strong enough to withstand any threat. For years Bob and I had enjoyed a warm, comfortable relationship short on spontaneity but long on commitment. I loved Bob and he loved me, and daily assurances came not in words but in our willingness to pitch in and share duties.
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