Have You Ever

  Seven years into our marriage, I had an affair. It began as a typical Saturday night out with my closest female friends. But on that particular evening as we sat, laughed, and talked in a popular New York restaurant, acquaintances were seated nearby celebrating their friend Colin's birthday. They invited us to join their table for a toast, which turned into several. When the house music came on and everyone headed for the bar, Colin — handsome and playful — took my hand and led me to the dance floor. In the time it took for his fingers to encircle mine, what had been a quiet attraction became an all-consuming need. I heard the warning voice in my head reminding me that this was dangerous territory: however alone I might feel, I was, in fact, married. As Colin placed his hands on my hips, I knew with absolute clarity that I was about to cross the line. Several days after meeting Colin,  I attended a party I knew he would be at. As I had hoped, he asked me to have dinner ...

  The affair extended beyond stolen moments—it spilled into the everyday, shaping evenings at dimly lit restaurants, casual conversations over coffee, and quiet messages exchanged online. It wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, layered with complications I hadn’t fully grasped in the moment. At first, I told myself it was about reclaiming something. My past partner had betrayed me first, after all. This was a response—a way to level the field, to prove to myself that I could detach, that I could feel wanted in ways I hadn’t before. But as time passed, I realized the irony: I wasn’t hurting my past partner—I was hurting myself. Each decision, each interaction, had become a form of self-medication, numbing wounds I should have confronted instead. And yet, regret never fully settled in. Because that experience, however flawed, forced me to see the truth: I needed to leave. It was the catalyst that pushed me toward an ending I had avoided for too long. Still, the only part that t...