Sam and I met through mutual friends when we were 16 years old. There was an instant attraction between us but we were so young. We shared a couple of innocent kisses and left it at that for another seven years.
At 24, we ran into each other again at a bar where we were both drinking with the same mutual friends from years before. This time, we were ready for something more to happen. We started dating then and there.
Three years later, we were married. Then kids came along. Three little girls.
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After renting for years in Adelaide, we finally moved into our beautifully renovated Edwardian house after 16 years together and 13 of those married as husband and wife. Life was good. I was so happy.
Unfortunately, Sam didn’t share my contentment at all.
He was always stressed about money. The house had cost us so much and the renovation was expensive.
On top of this, Sam wanted more one-on-one time with me. More sex. More connection.
I was at the end of a decade as a stay-at-home wife and mother. I was constantly exhausted and always put the children’s needs first. And then mine next. Sam came last. All the time.
Where else was there for him to be? I told him it was temporary. That babies and toddlers didn’t stay that way forever. Soon they would be off to school and we would get our lives back. Sam seemed to accept my philosophical take on things but he was still hurting inside. Nothing had been intentional from my part but he felt neglected. He felt ignored.
Late 2019, Sam started coming home later than usual. Which meant 11pm or later instead of his usual 8pm or 9pm. He also seemed disinterested in what I had to say and no longer looked at me square in the eyes.
He took every opportunity to go out without me on the weekends. He started mentioned a new friend. A young girl named Marley who was a nurse at the hospital where he worked as a doctor. Cliché.
The ‘friend’ line was taken until mid 2020 when I found a text message that blew the ruse wide open and he finally admitted he was having an affair.