BEL MOONEY: Can I ever trust my cheating husband again?

Dear Bel,

My husband and I (we’ve been together for 27 years) are in our early 70s, although we’re young for our age. Our finances are closely entwined and we are dependent upon each other for money. I love him very much and he, supposedly, feels the same about me.

I had thought we were so happy, but he has had a two-and-a-half-year affair with a much younger woman. I knew the moment this affair began and I stood by and watched it unfold. I was in shock.

When challenged, he denied, denied, denied everything and lied, lied, lied all the way through.

He assured me repeatedly that this woman meant absolutely nothing to him.

When I eventually saw a text from her (I was not snooping, but I walked into a room unexpectedly) which confirmed their affair, he still denied everything.

He told me he would never leave me, that there was no one but me and that I was the love of his life. Perhaps the truth was that she did not want him to leave me, but I will never know.

I have had a total breakdown from which I am just starting to recover. Now, I have four questions for you:

1. How do I live with myself for being such a pathetic fool to still love him so much, and for standing by and allowing this affair to go on?

2. I have to see this other woman quite frequently, and there is no avoiding this unless I move home, which I do not want to do. I feel so much anger towards her (as well as my husband). I want to do something to cause her the same enormous amount of pain she has caused me.

Yes, of course, I understand any affair takes two, but she knew my husband was married as I was with him the first time we met her. How do I let go of this tremendous hatred and anger?

3. How do I come to terms with the fact that the person I loved so much — the one person I truly thought would never hurt me — has two-and-a-half years’ worth of secrets with another woman?

4. My husband now assures me the affair is over, and the signs suggest that it is. We both want our marriage to continue. How do I ever learn to trust him again?

Alice  

My sympathies. In the same postbag I received another agonised letter from a woman of 30 whose husband had a brief affair then came back, but (it has turned out) passed on a sexually transmitted infection to his wife.

After individual counselling, they were dealing with the fallout from the affair, but now this has set them back. All of your questions — posed by a much older person — would be relevant to that younger mother-of-one. So I hope she reads this, too.

Let me take your questions in order.

1. It is the opposite of ‘pathetic’ to be steadfast in your love, hoping each day that the man’s foolishness will stop. You thought he would come to his senses, and eventually he did. It wasn’t your fault that it took so long. I believe it was brave of you to stick to the ‘for better, for worse’ vow.

Please flip the shame you are expressing at the moment, and feel proud of yourself for an extraordinary display of strength, not weakness.

2. It is no surprise that you hate the other woman. Of course you do. It would be unnatural if you didn’t.

Yes, it takes two to tango, but I can see why it helps to transfer the loathing you do not wish to feel for the man you love to the woman who (you think) seduced him, knowing he was married. It’s terrible that you have to see her — and I rather wish you would decide to move, as it would also give you and your husband a new project, a new start.

If that is impossible, I must tell you unequivocally that it’s also impossible for you to hurt her as she has hurt you. To wish that is to strap an impossibly heavy weight to your chest and step into an icy river. It will destroy you. But how to ‘let go’ of anger is a perennial mystery.

In time, you will find it does wear itself out, because rage is exhausting as well as destructive. In the meantime, write down all your feelings of hatred and violence in two letters, making them as abusive to the sinners as you like. Then burn each one.

3. This is, to me, the hardest question of all. The fact is, sexual passion makes utter fools of people, making them change. Shakespeare found the potential for comedy in this in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but the other side of that coin is the stuff of tragedy. When your spouse is unfaithful, you see them alter before your eyes.

They lie — and will even deny long-cherished truths about your life and love together — in order to feel less guilty. It’s horrible, but the only thing to do is ask yourself if you would rather they had left — or died. If the answer to that is ‘No’, then you have to say ‘Yes’ to the flawed future.

This now segues into your fourth question, doesn’t it?

4. I’m afraid there’s no choice but to accept that you and he have both changed, and so need to find each other once more. If your marriage is to continue, it must grow with the change. That’s why I wish you would move away to rebuild your life together.

Help free me from this living grief 

Dear Bel,

I have been in a living grief for many years because of my situation. I am not a ‘whole’ person and never will be again unless things change. It’s hard to hold on to hope when all attempts to mend things are hopeless.

It began more than 30 years ago — too long a story. After my difficult marriage ended, my youngest daughter, then 16, became a victim of the situation. I’ve been excluded from her life ever since.

Then, 15 years ago, her twin brother also shut me out. My father was dying and my son’s wife interfered, causing upset for Mum. I asked her to mind her own business and stop phoning Mum, and instead help her husband through that distressing time.

I feel like a stranger in my own life — robbed of what I should have had with my whole family. I have four girls and a boy, but since two have chosen to exclude me I do not know three of my grandchildren. I treasure time with the others who do want me, but there’s always something missing.

There is a photograph of all my children, and their spouses and children, with my ex-husband and his wife in the centre.

I have no problem with his wife, who was not to blame for the marriage break-up. But I’m heartbroken that I don’t have my own version of that happy picture.

I have a wonderful husband, without whom I would not be here. I count my blessings and my faith is important. But my sleep is often disturbed by heartache and longing. Coping with my see-saw existence is becoming harder. I am a fit and active 73-year-old, but I’m so tired.

Pamela

The phrase ‘living grief’ is usually associated with the long-term stress and pain of looking after very sick and/or dying people, followed by another grief when they pass away. Or any loss which does not seem to change with the passage of time.

For you, it is living with permanent estrangement from your twins. For some reason your daughter probably took the side of her father, 30 years ago.

Some 15 years later, at another time of great stress, you quarrelled with your daughter-in-law and your son never forgave you.

In your long letter, you explain that you tried to make up, to no avail. Your sense of rejection and loss is profound, and it is hard to see what you can do about it — other than learn to live with the reality of your life, calming the happy-sad-happy see-saw of your mind.

I understand your frustration that, while your ex-husband and his wife can treasure a photograph of them with the whole family, you cannot.

If that lack is, in fact, a consequence of your own past mistakes, it doesn’t make the sadness easier to bear.

Yet surely you must move on? For if you fail to come to terms with what has happened, you risk ruining the life that you do have with your beloved husband and three out of your five children.

By brooding over the idealised symbolism of the ‘missing’ photograph, you place yourself permanently on a spike of longing and loss.

This is to suffer pointlessly — and at the expense of all the happy snaps you must have of good times spent with the rest of the family.

You say you count your blessings — and that is the only saving grace. Count them more.

I believe we can help to heal ourselves with small, symbolic actions. I could suggest various things to aid you in accepting the reality of your life — sadness and all.

But I’ll choose just one. Why not buy yourself a present of a pretty, heart-shaped locket?

Instead of putting a photograph inside, I would get the finest felt-tip pen and write out the names of your five children and those of all the grandchildren on two pieces of paper, to fit both sides.

Take trouble over this. Wear the locket every day. Take a deep breath and hold it as needed.

And finally… In a world of darkness, faith can help

It uplifted me to receive so many supportive emails following my reply to last week’s lead letter. It asked what God is doing while the horror in Ukraine unfolds, and suggested it is ‘deluded’ to pray.

My reply came from the depths of my own despair and doubt, yet I found hope in human goodness. So many letters thanked me for writing as I did — a reply (I will be honest) of which I was proud, especially given the context.

The Mail publishes brilliant comment on political and social issues, but on the deep angst of an ancient philosophical question? Not so much.

One lady, full of gratitude, expressed astonished approval that the paper ‘allowed’ me to mention Jesus in my column! I can’t think why the Editor would not, since this newspaper is a broad church and respects all faiths.

Our great, still-growing appeal for Ukrainian refugees, and also the number of readers wanting to give space in their homes to women and children escaping Putin’s bombs, are a testimony to goodness, generosity and love. That is faith, too.

Like so many others I remain a doubting, seeking Christian.

The deluge of comment encourages me to believe that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Britain is still a Christian culture.

My life has been (and still is) shaped by the glorious tradition of Western art and music, rooted in the Christian faith. And I believe the message of tolerance and forgiveness preached by Jesus can save the world.

People usually say: ‘I’m not religious, but … ’ — needing to make the disclaimer. Nevertheless, there is a need for belief in something larger than the Self. A need, in dark times, to stretch out a hand to a heaven and beg: ‘Please.’

Not one of us can know for sure what is true, but we can hope. And, as the soldiers say: ‘There are no atheists in foxholes under fire.’ If faith can offer consolation for your problems, why not try it?