I Was the Other Woman

I’m not proud of what I’m about to tell you.

I know exactly what you’re thinking when you see this title. Homewrecker. Slut. Heartless.

And you’re not wrong.

But the truth is messier than that.

I didn’t wake up one day and say, “I think I’ll help ruin a marriage.” I fell in love. And then I made the worst choices of my life.

I met David at work. That’s where these things always start, right? Casual. Innocent.

He was older than me by about ten years. Handsome in a quiet way. He wasn’t loud or cocky. He listened. He remembered the smallest things I said.

I was 26, trying to figure out who I was. I had just moved to the city. I had no friends, no family around. Work was my world.

He was my mentor on a big project. We spent late nights in the office, ordering takeout, talking about everything.

At first, I felt safe with him. He made me laugh. He asked about my writing, my dreams.

And he never once mentioned his wife.

It wasn’t until I saw the ring that I knew.

We were in the break room. He was making coffee, sleeves rolled up, and I noticed the gold band for the first time.

I froze.

“David,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “I didn’t realize you were married.”

He glanced at his hand like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I don’t really talk about it.”

That was it.

No explanation.

And I didn’t ask for one.

If I’d had any sense, I would have pulled back then. But I didn’t.

Instead, I told myself we’re just friends. I didn’t want to lose the only person who felt like home in that lonely office.

He never flirted outright. Never touched me inappropriately. But there were looks. Long, silent looks across the conference table.

One night, we were working late. The office was empty. I was exhausted, emotional. I told him I didn’t think I was good enough for the job.

He hugged me.

That hug lasted too long.

When I pulled back, our faces were too close.

And then he kissed me.

I didn’t stop him.

That night, I went home shaking. I felt sick. I told myself it was a mistake.

But the next day, he texted me: “Can we talk?”

We met after work. We sat in his car. He told me he was miserable in his marriage. That they hadn’t been happy in years.

He said he hadn’t felt alive in forever—until me.

I cried.

Because I felt the same.

After that, it was like we were addicted to each other.

Sneaking around. Hotels. His office after hours.

He’d hold me close and say, “You make me feel like myself again.”

And God help me—I believed it.

People always ask: Did you feel guilty?

Of course I did.

Every time I heard his phone buzz and he ignored it. Every time he left me to go home.

But he made me feel chosen. Special.

He told me he loved me.

That he’d leave her.

He said they hadn’t slept together in years. That she’d understand.

I wanted to believe him so badly.

This went on for seven months.

Seven months of stolen moments.

Seven months of lies.

I started lying to my friends, too. I told them I was seeing someone but kept his name a secret. They asked me if he was married. I laughed it off.

But the guilt ate at me.

I asked him constantly: When are you going to tell her?

He’d sigh. Say soon.

Always soon.

Then one night, everything fell apart.

His wife found my texts.

She called me.

Her voice was shaking with rage and grief.

“You know he has kids, right?” she spat. “You know you’re destroying lives?”

I had no idea he had children. He’d never told me.

I couldn’t even speak.

That was the end.

He tried to see me after. He said he’d explain.

I blocked him.

I quit that job a month later.

It’s been three years.

I still think about it every day.

I’ve dated other men since, but I always tell them up front: No cheating. No lies. Or I’m gone.

I learned my lesson the hardest way.

I don’t blame his wife for hating me.

She should.

I was complicit.

I let myself believe it was love when it was just selfishness.

And yes—he lied to me. But I lied to myself.

If you’re reading this and you’re the other woman, I want you to know:

It doesn’t matter if he says he loves you.

It doesn’t matter if he says he’s leaving.

It doesn’t matter how unhappy he claims to be.

You’re still helping him lie.

You’re still hurting someone.

And you will never be able to wash that blood off your hands.

I’m not writing this for pity.

I’m writing it because I want to own it.

I was the other woman.

I helped destroy a marriage.

I will carry that with me forever.

✅

infidelity, confessional, relationships, love, betrayal, personal essay, guilt, lessons learned