When I was 34, I had everything: a huge £40,000 wedding in Norfolk, a fast-paced job as a TV executive, a husband who I’d adored since university, and a gorgeous house in London. Then one night, in the very first year of marriage, I decided to blow my life up and cheat.
The guilt was debilitating. We never even slept together but I didn’t understand how I’d let myself get involved with another man at all. It felt like a drunken mistake that just kept happening. After the first time, I woke up desperate to understand what I’d done. I loved my husband and I didn’t want to leave him – but the infidelity was addictive. Amid the confusion and shame, I was like a giddy teenager. All in all, it took me six months to finally end it, because something was missing in my marriage. Now I felt scared – and very alone.
