The Affair was Intense. The Fallout is Real.

A Reader Asks, Am I a Terrible Person?

The Question: I am a woman with a high-responsibility, well remunerated job, a partner and children. I recently reconnected with an old university boyfriend. Back then he was handsome, confident, and I was shy and insecure, and looked much younger than I was. Despite this, he treated me as an adult and as an equal. When, after many months of patience, he became my first lover, he made me feel like the grown woman I had always craved being treated as.

We were together for a few happy years until post-uni realities set in. Around that time I was experiencing some chaos in my life and I didn’t feel capable of being in a relationship. I ended things badly, in a long drawn out way, which he accepted with sadness and dignity.

Twenty years later, I realised I had never stopped loving him. He now has maturity to add to his charm. When it became clear the chemistry was still there, he initially shied away. To my shame, he is married with children, I pursued it, assuring him we were still young and had a future.

We began a clichéd love affair in hotel rooms. I have only ever had sex with two other men, one briefly and my current long-term partner. Sex with my lover is like being pushed upwards, through a thunder storm, into heaven, whilst slow, deep strokes inside you play beautiful cello music. It is a big deal. It is amazing.

I stupidly left my phone lying around and my partner found out. He was shocked but now wants to fight for me and our tight-knit little family. I feel I am sinking into quicksand. I promised my lover I would rebuild my life with him, but now that I have been caught, I cannot bear the hassle of ending my home life. My lover would not have agreed to an affair if I had not said I was leaving, and has even told his wife.

Am I a terrible person for risking two homes for great sex? Is it awful to get cold feet now that I’ve scratched the itch? Would any of this have happened if I hadn’t been such a prude in my youth?

My answer: You write with flair and humour, but oh dear, is that appropriate? I want to be kind and I think the kindest I can be is with a bit of tough love.

You wonder if this is the result of not having had more lovers when you were younger. It is not. This is not about experience. It is about seriousness. You take your job seriously. What would it look like if you took other people seriously too?

You refer to your partner and children as your “tight-knit little family,” yet treat them as if they are side characters in your love story. You write more vividly about the hotel sex than about your home life. You say your lover is honourable, and that your partner wants to fight for you. These are not scenarios. These are people. You have hurt them, and you seem more concerned with the “hassle” of sorting it all out than with the pain that’s been caused. That word, hassle, is doing a lot heavy lifting here. It suggests this is all a bit of a nuisance, when it’s a moral mess.

You walked back into your old lover’s life and made promises. He acted on those promises. Did you ever intend to? You say you left this college boyfriend during a time of personal chaos, but I wonder whether commitment has always frightened you. And here it is again. And here is more chaos. Being grown up isn't about who makes you feel like an adult, it’s about who you choose to be when it matters.

These two men are taking you seriously. Can you do the same for them, and for yourself and your family? You cannot keep drifting, deferring, and avoiding. You say you are sinking into quicksand. The way out is to start moving with care and intention and empathy for others, especially your children, because they are not in a position to make choices like adults can. Begin to really see and feel for other people, not just the role they play in your story.

"Sinking into quicksand" suggests you are feeling a lot but are you feeling for others? You describe two households being torn apart almost as if it were part of an exciting novel. Are you seeing others merely as walk-on parts, while casting yourself as the star? To me, and I may be wrong, it reads as though you have a blind spot: a difficulty recognising that other people are just as real and important as you are. This is not just selfishness; it borders on a kind of narcissism, not vanity, but an inability to fully register other people's needs beyond your own emotional landscape.

Recovery from this will not come through grand romantic gestures, or even more self-recrimination. It will come through something quieter and harder: learning to take responsibility, not just for what you feel, but for what you cause.

I knew someone once who gave little real attention to his children, and when challenged, he simply shrugged and called himself a “terrible father,” almost proudly, as if naming the failure made it somehow acceptable. Is that what you are doing when you call yourself a “terrible”? Atonement doesn’t lie in self-dramatisation. Don’t label yourself as a terrible person but do the real work of becoming a better one. That is what’s needed now.

The lesson here, for all of us, is that the story you write with your life is never just your own.

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