Editor’s Note: This personal story is a diary of an affair. It’s one woman’s recount of the emotions and events she endured as she coped with her husband’s deception, and was submitted to us anonymously. This diary will be published in a series of articles. The following is part one.

The Notes

So I sit, far beyond my usual bedtime. All I can do is think of how my life will never be the same. All the while he lay in slumber, as though normalcy were a fashion statement he dare not disturb. His life not altered the tiniest fringe. It’s time for a good -old fashioned family outing. What do you say, doll?

It was early morning; a time when the dew had yet to burn off and the sun barely shone beyond the dusty clouds. I’ve had a whiff of suspicion looming around my nose for quite some time. There it was, sitting in the open. A simple click and it appeared. For the first time in months. His private email. Sitting there on his Blackberry. A short scroll down and my air of suspicion turned to valiant detective work.

A letter. From a woman. Addressed to him, discussing a secret rendezvous.

Should I have been in any rational state of mind, I would have probed further, learned more, perhaps even vomited in disbelieve. Instead, I chickened out. Ranting and hollering, I stormed into the room where he slept and threw the phone at his head. I can’t recall all the ugly vulgar remarks which flew uncontrollably from my mouth.

Little by little, the story unfolded throughout the day. Clever little ass, he kept changing the sequence of events, the times of meetings, the length of time the affair went on. All the while I think of all the cute things he had done for me, like send me rose to my work place several days before he met up with her again.

Obviously, well, with the cat storming out of the bag in flames, all evidence has been destroyed. Strangely, I care less who she is or how she catapulted herself into my life unannounced, and most certainly uninvited. I care less who the man had become that so graciously screwed her with his wedding band on. I care even more less whether he chivalrously popped another email to her informing her of his decision to keep his balls rather than stick them in her mouth again.

What pierces my side, so deeply probing with anguish that I can barely breath, is that he sleeps. There on the sofa. Soft and slumber. I suffer and he sleeps. He does nothing all day but mope about and wait for my anger to progress into pseudo-sanity. And he sleeps.

As though he has no conscience. Every time I close my eyes, this fictitious figure of a woman appears in my mind. There I sit, a voyeur in the bar where (and mind you, this is a retelling of a tale) she kindly approached the lonely soul on his bar stool and he reluctantly invited her for warm conversation (certainly about me) and a good batch of delicious alcoholic beverages. I watch and the conversation turns into caresses. Caresses into invites, and invites into soft porn.

The most appalling part of this recurring nightmare is the exchange. The card exchange. And the fear of getting caught, so the personal email address exchange. The late nights in the computer communicating with her. God only knows what else was going on. And then the next meeting. Scheduled. On his daughter’s birthday.

This past Valentine’s Day was a nightmare (so much that I refuse to capitalize it). I have never been so insulted and berated in my life. All the while, he was planning his next escapade with her. There he leaves his daughter on her tenth birthday for this debacle.

Now what?

Editor’s Note: Part two of the Diary of an Affair will be published shortly.