Sixteen years ago, I was a 38-year-old mother of three young children living in the suburbs of New Jersey.
Chris, my husband of nine years, and I owned a small Cape, white with blue shutters. The kids – two boys and a girl, ages 7, 5, and almost 3 – happily played in the fenced-in backyard, jumping in piles of leaves in the fall and running through sprinklers in the summer.
Chris commuted into New York City for work. I worked part-time as an administrative assistant, a job that gave me the flexibility to be the kids’ primary caregiver.
It was a picture-perfect life from the outside.
No one knew I was harbouring two secrets – one life-threatening, one morally reprehensible, both shameful.
I was an active alcoholic, drinking vodka most days while taking care of my children, and I was a cheating spouse.
I had managed to hide the drinking from nearly everyone, including myself, for over 20 years. My entanglement with the other man lasted four months.
What I didn’t know then was that without the one secret, I would never have been saved from the other.
It was midday on a Monday in December. Chris was away on a business trip. The kids were at sch...
English (US)