I’ve been married for ten years, and looking back, it feels like a lifetime. In the beginning, my husband treated me poorly and was unfaithful. I was young, naive, and desperate to believe in the fairy tale of a happy marriage. I forgave him, hoping that love, time, and a family would change things. And for a while, it seemed like they did. We moved forward, built a life together, and had children who became the center of my world. I put my energy into creating a home, raising our kids, and trying to be the perfect wife and mother. But deep down, something was always missing.

About five years into our marriage, the cracks I had tried so hard to patch up began to widen. The hurt I thought I had buried started to resurface. Every argument, every cold silence between us, brought back memories of those early betrayals. I told myself I was over it, that I had moved on for the sake of our family, but resentment started to grow like a shadow, following me everywhere. The connection that had once held us together felt frayed and distant, and I found myself longing for something I couldn’t quite name—something more.

I began to notice it during the quiet moments—when the kids were in bed, the house was still, and we were left alone together. We barely talked anymore, our conversations limited to practical matters and routines. The intimacy we once shared felt like a distant memory, replaced by obligation and habit. I tried to revive it, to reignite the spark, but it always felt one-sided, like I was the only one fighting to keep our marriage alive. And that’s when the thoughts started creeping in—the fleeting desire for someone else’s attention.

It wasn’t about lust or excitement, at least not at first. It was about wanting to feel seen, understood, and valued—things that had become rare in my marriage. I found myself fantasizing about what it would be like to have a partner who truly listened to me, who showed affection without expecting something in return. I never acted on those thoughts, but the temptation was there, lingering in my mind during lonely nights or after another argument that left me feeling invisible. The ache for a connection that felt genuine, for someone who would treat me with respect and kindness, grew stronger as the years went by.

At times, I would scroll through old messages from friends, wondering what it would be like to reconnect. I even caught myself flirting with strangers—innocent conversations that I knew wouldn’t go anywhere, but they made me feel alive again, if only for a moment. It wasn’t fair to my husband, I knew that, but it felt like I was drowning in a sea of unmet needs, and these small interactions were lifebuoys keeping me afloat. The guilt gnawed at me, yet the resentment was stronger.

We never talked about the past, my husband and I. It was as if we had silently agreed to sweep his early indiscretions under the rug and pretend they never happened. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that our marriage had been tainted from the start, and I had simply put a pretty frame around a cracked picture. Sometimes, when I looked at him, I saw the man I had once loved with all my heart, but other times, all I saw were the lies and the broken promises that we never truly healed from.

I’m not proud of the thoughts I’ve had or the desires that tugged at my heart, but they are a part of my story. A story of a young woman who believed in second chances, who wanted so desperately to hold her family together, but who lost pieces of herself along the way. Now, ten years in, I’m at a crossroads, unsure of where to go from here. Do I keep pretending that everything is fine, or do I finally face the truth I’ve been avoiding—that maybe, just maybe, love and respect are worth more than keeping up appearances?