A few weeks ago, I went out with some friends, eager to unwind and let loose. It had been a while since I felt carefree, so when my friend—a guy I’d known for a while—joined us, the night felt even more exciting. The drinks were flowing, laughter echoed, and the worries of my everyday life melted away. I was caught up in the moment, feeling a connection with him that felt harmless—at least, that’s what I told myself.

My husband, though, sensed something wasn’t right. He started blowing up my phone, calling and texting, each message more urgent than the last. I ignored him, silencing my phone and brushing it off as overprotectiveness. But deep down, I knew he was worried, maybe even suspicious. The tension between us hadn’t gone unnoticed, and it was no secret that things had been rocky lately. I thought I could push those thoughts aside, just for one night.

As the night wore on, my friends decided to call it and head home, but I wasn’t ready to leave. So I stayed with him. We ended up at a nearby park, quiet and secluded under the stars. There, with inhibitions lowered, things crossed a line I hadn’t meant to cross. One thing led to another, and in that moment, I let myself believe that it didn’t matter. But as the night ended and reality settled in, the guilt hit me like a tidal wave.

Returning home, I couldn’t look my husband in the eye. The betrayal felt heavy, suffocating. His anger and pain were unmistakable when he found out, and every tear he shed broke me a little more. In one night, I had shattered the trust we’d built over years, trading it for a fleeting moment I could never take back.

Now, the weight of that choice hangs over me every day. I wish I could undo it, but I know it’s impossible. I’m left trying to piece together what’s left of our marriage, though I’m not sure if he’ll ever truly forgive me—or if I’ll ever forgive myself.