My husband, now 50, stopped being intimate with me about nine years ago. At that time, he was facing serious health concerns we feared might be prostate cancer, and I had just endured a late and painful miscarriage. Both of us were deeply traumatized, and physical closeness ended. Yet, we never stopped showing affection—kisses, hugs, and cuddles were still part of our daily life.
After about a year, I tried to initiate intimacy again. He avoided me, blaming our past experiences. I suggested therapy, but he insisted he only needed time. After two awkward attempts, I stopped trying. I felt unwanted, unattractive, and embarrassed. Still, he showed love through tenderness, and until recently, I fell asleep in his arms every night.
I noticed he had no physical difficulties, which made me feel worse. It seemed he simply didn’t want me—or intimacy at all. By 35, I accepted I would never have children. We focused on our careers, bought our dream apartment, built a lake house, and surrounded ourselves with material comforts. For a while, I felt content.
Three years ago, the emptiness returned. I told him I needed intimacy. He said it wasn’t me—he simply didn’t want it. He insisted we were lucky to have love and stability, and begged me not to leave. He even suggested I find hobbies instead. I considered separation, but he refused, asking me to attend counseling with him under the condition we never mention intimacy or divorce. After two sessions, I stopped going.
I tried to fill the void with exercise, piano lessons, climbing, and travel. But during the pandemic, when we were home constantly, I began fantasizing about other men. I had always received attention, but now I welcomed it. After COVID, my company hired new staff, including a handsome younger colleague who openly admired me. His attention thrilled me, and I found myself drawn to him.
On a work trip to London, we spent evenings together. One night, after drinking, he told me bluntly what he desired. I gave in to the fantasy and went to his room. Halfway through, guilt overwhelmed me, and I stopped. I left, shaken.
That was a week ago. Since then, guilt has consumed me. I moved to the guest room, unable to let my husband touch me. I feel unworthy, ashamed, and disgusted with myself. I know I must confess, because the secret is unbearable.
Last night, I told him. His eyes showed me instantly that I had lost him. He said little, and I offered no excuses—only sorrow. He has not come home, and I know I have lost my best friend and the love of my life.
