“Why is Mom sad? Are you getting divorced?”
His fifteen-year-old is standing in the doorway of the kitchen backpack slung over one shoulder, expecting an answer.
He doesn’t have one.
Not a real answer. Not one that doesn’t require lying or redaction. Now one that won’t open a can of worms that he won’t be able to shut.
So he stalls.
“We’re... working through some stuff,” he says, rinsing he plate he’s already rinsed twice.
His son doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching and waiting for him to confirm what his adolescent mind has already pieced together.
Kids know. They always know.
He wants to be honest. To be a good example for his son. To tell him the truth.
I had an affair.
But he can’t.
He wants to tell him.
It wasn’t about love. It was just… exciting. A break from the monotony. I still love your mom very much.
He really wants to explain.
Your mom found out, and her heart is broken. We are trying to put the pieces back together. But it’s hard. So very hard.
He wants him to know.
Carrying this feels like drowning. I want to tell you everything, because getting it off my chest would make me feel better. But that’s not a good enough reason to shatter your world.
He wants his son to understand.
I don’t want you to hate me. This family is everything to me. I didn’t mean to hurt your mom or you kids. It was selfish.
It started small. Innocent. A text message from a coworker that made him laugh.
Then coffee. Breaks. Lunches. Drinks after work.
He wasn’t looking for it. It just happened.
It wasn’t passionate. There was no love. It was convenient. Easy.
No conversations about bills and schedules. Or arguing about whose turn it was to take the car in. No end-of-the-day exhaustion.
Just a slice of time, away from his lie, that belonged exclusively to him. Where he wasn’t someone’s dad or husband. Where he didn’t have to think.
The adrenaline. The secrecy. The electric zing that made his pulse spike when his phone would light up.
It felt alive. It felt like freedom.
Until it didn’t
His wife found a text. It wasn’t explicit, but it raised questions.
He’s good at omission, but never lying.
The conversation that followed eviscerated both of them.
She sobbed. He spilled the beans. She wanted to know every teensy detail. He spared no expense, though he wished he had.
Her face crumbled. His heart ached.
That was three months ago. They’re still standing. Barely.
They started couples therapy. They talk. They’re both trying. Some days are better than others.
The house feels different now. Quiet. Heavy.
The twelve-year-old doesn’t ask to play board games after dinner anymore. The fifteen-year-old watches them like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
His wife swings back and forth between wanting to work through it privately and whether the kids deserve to know why things are suddenly different.
He doesn’t know either.
Clearing the air might feel like a relief at first. But then what?
His son is still standing there. Silent. Waiting.
“We’re working through some stuff. But we’re okay.”
His son’s eyes drop to the floor. He doesn’t believe him. He just turns to leave, without saying another word.
“Hey,” he calls after him.
His son stops mid-stride.
He wants to give him something real. Something true. But he doesn’t know what that is yet.
“Love you, bud.”
His face softens. Just a little. “Love you too, Dad.”
The door closes. He’s alone again. Holding the thrice cleaned plate, wondering if normal will ever come again.
There is no right way.
If you’ve been here or are here, this episode is for you.
Listen here (up there 👆🏾) or on your favorite platform.
