I’ve been married for ten years now. When we first got together, I was young, full of hope, and maybe a bit naïve. My husband treated me poorly in those early years, and he even cheated on me more than once. But, blinded by love and a desire for stability, I forgave him, brushing it off as youthful mistakes or lapses in judgment. I wanted to build a life together, have children, and create the family I had always dreamed of. And for a while, we did. We had kids, settled into a routine, and on the surface, it all looked fine.

But around five or six years into the marriage, I started to feel the weight of those early betrayals in ways I hadn’t expected. Resentment began to creep into my heart, quietly but steadily, until it was impossible to ignore. I felt the sting of what he had done, even if he had apologized and moved on. The pain and anger would bubble up at the strangest times, sometimes even in moments that were supposed to be intimate.

At times, I’d have this undeniable urge to reach out to other men, to feel wanted and desired in a way that felt genuine and untouched by betrayal. The thought of it lingered like a forbidden thrill, an escape from the resentment that was becoming a constant companion in my marriage. When we were together, especially during intimate moments, I’d catch myself wondering if I was really enough for him or if he still craved something—or someone—else. The connection we once had started to feel like it was built on a cracked foundation, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold it all together.