I never considered myself to be particularly unhappy in my marriage. In fact, many would have said we were living the dream. A beautiful home, three wonderful children, financial security and a relationship which, while it may not have set my world alight, was comfortable, easy, and full of genuine affection. We had our ups and downs, but all in all we were plodding along nicely. After 15 years together, I felt we had a lot to be thankful for and while I privately yearned for something more, I accepted that this was the way my life was to be. Had I never met the man who made me fall down the rabbit hole, it’s most likely I would still be skirting the edges of a life half-lived. It just took one life-changing encounter to make me realise how wrong I was. Once the penny dropped, the life I knew went out the window. 

And so I began an affair with a married man. Nothing too unusual in that perhaps. Often married people indulge in extra-marital dalliances which remain undiscovered. Indeed there is a school of thought that upholds the notion that an affair can breathe life into a stale relationship. Not so for me. I was smitten; head over heels; truly, madly, deeply and all the cliche?s in between, in love with a man who was not only married, but to a close friend of mine, and also, to complicate matters, father to my children’s best friends. The playground gossips in small-town Ireland were about to go into overdrive.

I first laid eyes on him at a children’s birthday party. It wasn’t love at first sight, or even lust for that matter. It was intrigue. We barely acknowledged each other during the five-minute encounter, but the memory lingered for a long time. I wasn’t exactly sure why. I found him mystifying; wasn’t sure if I liked him or loathed him. Over time our children became close. Playdates, sleepovers and school events ensured we met from time to time, each chance meeting impacting me more than the last.

But life carried on. Over the years, his wife and I became good friends and eventually we began to socialise together as a foursome. I didn’t have any idea how he felt about me, in fact I was convinced he disliked me as he often treated me with barely masked disdain. His penetrating gaze made me uncomfortable and not sure what he was ever thinking, I assumed the worst. I wasn’t accustomed to being disliked for no apparent reason and it baffled me. Truthfully, I wasn’t spending my days mooning over him, or even really thinking about him, but whenever I did run into him it always left an impression on me.

As time marched on, the children became inseparable and lived in each other’s homes, as best friends often do. Our two families became more and more intertwined until one night, everything changed. My husband was visiting friends overnight and the children were staying over with their grandmother for the evening, affording me a fortuitous night out. After dinner with a crowd of friends it dwindled to just us, his wife having left earlier to relieve their babysitter. As I sat tongue-tied, making ridiculous small talk, I instinctively knew how I felt, and that he was feeling the same. Emboldened by too much wine he offered to escort me home and I did nothing to object.

Although we avoided each other for weeks in the aftermath of our tryst, we both knew there was unfinished business between us. I could barely face myself in the mirror and seeing his wife and children made me feel physically ill with guilt. But more than anything, I was consumed with the need to see him again, consequences be damned. I knew my behaviour was contemptible and although I cared, I just didn’t care enough. We arranged to meet again and this time, there was no question as to what the outcome would be. It was the beginning of the end in some ways, or the beginning of the beginning in others.

The affair was all the things you imagine an affair to be. Sometimes exciting, dangerous and exhilarating, sometimes just terrifying. And while the physical side was mind-boggling, the relationship was also full of laughter, tenderness and intense conversation. We were unencumbered by the day-to-day monotony of married life and so our time together, though limited, was magical. Some days I detested myself for becoming the woman that women love to hate, inserting myself in another person’s marriage and betraying those who loved and trusted me. I thought of the people who could be hurt by our behaviour and how, if discovered, it would affect our children and their friendships. They were so young and I questioned what kind of mother I was to put my needs and happiness before theirs. I am still unable to answer those questions. Other days I was simply high on love and thought only of him and whether I could dare to dream of a future together.

While I struggled with my seemingly defunct moral compass, he was also struggling with the choices that we had made. His mood swings were dramatic, varying from euphoric and full of love to self-loathing and fear of the person he had become. We astounded ourselves at the ease with which we could lie to our spouses. Dishonesty had become part and parcel of our daily lives and this did not sit well with us, yet we did nothing to halt the rollercoaster. We were selfish, but we were in love and in our minds, that trumped all.

His wife, however, was one person I could not avoid. Life had to proceed as normal, and that included continuing my friendship with her. To permit myself to continue my underhand behaviour I created two compartments within my life, and tried as best I could to keep them separate. I had not known her very long, and it was very much a friendship that had developed through our children but we spent a lot of time together. We socialised occasionally but she was often bitter and resentful towards me, affording me yet another justification for my treachery. Somehow, I could while away an afternoon with her, sipping coffee and chatting as our children tore around the local playground, all the time plotting a rendezvous with her husband later. It would appear I had previously undiscovered depths of guile and deceit within me, something I was shocked and ashamed to discover.

After a year of lies, dishonesty and deceit, something had to give. Work was suffering, and we were both miserable. We had tried unsuccessfully to end the affair several times, but the lure was too strong for both of us. We both came to the conclusion, whether we ended up together or not, that our respective marriages were over, dead in the water. We didn’t envisage how we could have a happily ever after, but things could not continue as they were. The lies were beginning to wear us down and we knew it was unfair to our spouses. And so we braved the elements and confessed all.

The ensuing backlash could have been predicted but still left me ashamed and bereft. My husband was stunned and although I knew he had been suspicious of my behaviour for some time, he was crushed when I finally confirmed his worst fears. Adding insult to injury, I wasn’t begging forgiveness or promising to end the relationship, but telling him our marriage was over. The fact that the object of my affection was a man he considered a friend was the final cruel punch which left him angrier than I had ever imagined. When he broke down and cried, I wanted to hold him and tell him everything would work out, but I knew that lie would be the worst lie of all. I knew that was what he wanted to hear, but this was not the time for false promises.

Over the other side of the small town we lived in, my friend was being subjected to the same heartbreak by her husband and coming to the realisation that a person she had trusted and allowed into her family had betrayed her in the worst possible way. It was, without doubt the worst day of our lives so far, and I had caused it.

My husband didn’t move out straight away. He stayed in the family home for a week or so, alternating between being civil and remote, enraged and aggressive. I woke one morning to find him sitting at my bedside crying tears of frustration before losing control and punching me in the face. I fell back stunned against the pillow when some movement caught my eye and I spied our seven-year-old daughter crying in the corner. She had never witnessed her father being violent before and was traumatised. He left our home that day and our marriage was officially pronounced dead.

Throughout this episode, the children had learned the root of the unfolding drama in their home and their confusion and fear at the situation was palpable. They couldn’t fathom how things could change so quickly. Their friends were, of course, equally upset, watching their mother implode, and despised me for being the cause of her distress. She had always been a strong woman, but the betrayal and the humiliation were a bitter pill. As the Easter holidays drew to a close, school runs loomed and I knew I could not avoid coming face to face with her. I understood that she deserved an opportunity to look me in the eye and have her say but I worried about a confrontation in the schoolyard and the impact it would have on my children. Their mother had a lot to answer for but they were innocents who had also lost their family ideal and were struggling to come to terms with that. A public humiliation would only add to their distress. Walking the ten minutes to school in the mornings became a covert operation but eventually the inevitable happened. Coming face-to-face, I steeled myself for the barrage of abuse I was sure to get but it never came.

As she looked me up and down, I felt smaller than ever before but as she turned to walk away, she had a change of heart and stopped and spat in my face. No more than I deserved but as I recoiled, I glimpsed her daughter and my own silently gazing at us through the bars of the school playground.

Some years on and the scandal and furore has eventually died down. I did lose many so-called friends. The vitriol towards me was ever-present for a long time and even my own family had trouble supporting me. It was easier for him as his family lived abroad. The scarlet woman was not a label that sat easily with me. I somehow grew accustomed to the nudges and the stares but it never got any easier.

People have progressed to more current gossip now but the entire incident will follow me forever. I am the woman who stole another’s husband and always will be. We are still together and still in love. Even more remarkably, the children have somehow managed to remain friends. We have all moved on and while it may not be a fairy tale ending, it is an ending of sorts. People often ask me if I would change anything if I could and I haven’t quite perfected the answer to that question. Someday perhaps.

In conversation with Charlotte Gunne.