It was 15 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in our finished basement, the place my ex-husband has turned into his office. The kids were in bed and he'd gone out with friends, or so he said. There was something about the way he stood before me that night, something about the way his voice cracked when he said, “I’m going to go have a few drinks with the guys,” that I didn’t believe.
Which was crazy, because I always believed my husband. We’d been together for over a decade at this point and I’d never caught him in a lie. I couldn’t even recall a time when he’d exaggerated a story.
He was a good father too, a good husband. A provider, a hard worker. No drinking problem, no addictions. Smart with money. So in short, I trusted him. Like really trusted him. I married him because he was different from any other man I’d been with. He only had eyes for me. He wasn’t a player. And up until that night, I never felt the need to go through his stuff.
But as I crept downstairs, my heart thudding, I knew something was off. I knew it. I just didn’t know what. I went through all his paper work, the filing cabinet. Then I made my way upstairs to our bedroom and went through his pockets, checked his dresser drawers.
Then, I sat on our bed and cried. I was so ashamed of myself and asked myself what the hell was wrong with me. I’d never gone through his stuff. I’d never had a reason to. I wasn’t even sure if I did that night, but my gut was churning and it didn’t stop until a few weeks later when he confessed he’d had an affair with a co-worker.
He assured me it was over. He didn’t love her. That she came on to him and he tried to resist, but after she pushed the second time, telling him she didn’t care that he was married, he caved.
He wanted to have sex. Badly. And his wife (me) hadn’t let him touch her in months. Almost a year to be exact.