I initially tuned into Showtime’s acclaimed drama, The Affair, because it aired right after Homeland, a show I’m particularly fond of for its espionage thrills. However, I found myself less captivated by the tales of affluent New Yorkers entangled in infidelity. Living in New York myself, the premise felt uncomfortably familiar. The protagonist, Noah Solloway, portrayed by Dominic West, is a struggling writer and high school English teacher—his character struck a chord with me, as I sometimes see myself reflected in his narrative, albeit as a playwright and adjunct professor.
I typically watch television to escape reality—take me to exotic locales like Pakistan or the unique landscapes of Fargo, but please spare me the drama of a Brooklyn dinner party filled with writers fretting over their latest projects; that’s just a typical day at my home. Despite my initial reluctance, I found myself drawn into The Affair and, ultimately, have come to appreciate its creative storytelling. Yet, my aversion to the show stemmed from deeper roots.
My family has a long-standing history with infidelity—it’s practically a tradition. My maternal grandfather was married four times, and three of those unions ended due to his affairs, one of which was so scandalous that court records remained sealed for 50 years. My maternal grandmother also had three marriages, with whispers that one of my aunts may not be her biological child. Dinner conversations often revolve around speculations of parentage on my mother’s side.
In contrast, my father was married to one woman for an extended period—though not my mother—yet he was notoriously unfaithful. Rumor has it he pursued women he met on the bus, a notion I find perplexing since I’ve never encountered anyone on public transport that I felt compelled to see again.
I wish I could portray my mother as a beacon of fidelity amidst this chaos, but she had a tendency to be attracted to unavailable, married men. Much of her more notorious affairs occurred before my birth, so I missed the drama firsthand. Before her passing, she attempted to write a memoir about her romantic escapades, a project she never completed. I’m unsure if she cheated during her own brief marriages; they were so fleeting that it hardly seemed possible.
The phrase “happily married” has always made me uneasy. Growing up, my mother was often single yet radiantly happy. As a child, my vision of a perfect family included myself and two daughters, with no husbands in sight. Yet, in reality, I find myself married to a wonderful man named Ryan. Our contentment is, in many ways, a result of my mother’s life lessons.
My mother spent her later years restoring a dilapidated stone house on a picturesque Greek island. The advance she received for her memoir was spent on this project, which remained unfinished, much like her book. During much of my 20s, visits to her required lengthy and costly travel, an endeavor I undertook out of love.
In September of my 25th year, I journeyed to her after falling for an actor who was both a cheater and a drunkard. When I shared this with my mother over the phone, I anticipated understanding. Instead, she promised me a ticket to Greece, having recently acquired a new credit card, insisting that the beauty of the island would mend my heart.
As a houseguest, I was less than gracious, often crying at breakfast while my mother busied herself with household repairs she couldn’t afford. One morning, after a particularly dismal breakfast, I left for my favorite beach, my heart heavy.
While I sat sobbing on the shoreline, I was surprised by Ryan, a childhood friend who had also visited the island. We reminisced and shared laughter, contrasting sharply with my sorrow. He had encountered my mother and she had sent him to console me, exclaiming, “I am hopeless with the depressed!”
A few days later, my mother threw me a birthday celebration, inviting only men, including a couple of local jewelers and a Frenchman she met on a bus. I felt a wave of empathy for Penelope from The Odyssey, juggling suitors while Odysseus was away. I found myself debating whether to leave or to drink. I chose the latter, and soon noticed Ryan sitting alone. His presence calmed me, and amidst the festivities, a connection sparked between us that changed everything.
Ryan easily bonded with my mother, who had been critical of my past relationships but praised him to the point of irritation. As her mental state deteriorated, she found solace in discussing literature with him, despite his lack of familiarity with certain authors. He was the kind of person who would drop everything to support a friend in need, and his boldness to stand up and take charge during my birthday party revealed the depth of his character.
I sometimes wonder if my mother was able to depart this world peacefully, knowing her daughters had found love. My sister, Clara, married a close family friend, proving that despite her romantic missteps, she guided us toward the love she never found. Rather than dwell on her past, she celebrated our futures, helping us discover the partners that eluded her in her adventurous life.
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Summary
This personal reflection delves into the author’s family history of infidelity, highlighting the struggles and revelations that shaped their understanding of love and relationships. It emphasizes how familial patterns can influence one’s outlook on marriage and happiness, ultimately leading to a positive conclusion of finding true love.