My sexless marriage drove me to an affair, but I don’t regret it as I finally have the baby I longed for

Watching my beloved son as he plays happily in the back garden, I am overwhelmed with love.

He looks over at me and smiles, and in this moment I am absolutely certain that all the pain I went though to have him – and all the pain I caused – was worth it.

It may sound callous and selfish, but having an affair turned out to be the best thing I ever did. If I hadn’t cheated, I would never have become a mother.

Now, years later, what is clear to me is that I didn’t leave my ex-husband for my lover, I left him for my child.

A decade ago, I walked out on Matt, my husband of 11 years, following a year-long affair with Robbie, the man who is now my second husband. I’m not proud of what I did, but I am not ashamed either.

In life, I do not hide the facts. Most people who know me realise there was some ‘overlap’ between my relationships; they need only do the maths.

My friends understand, and those who didn’t chose to banish themselves from my life.

The only reason I am writing this article under a pseudonym, and have changed the identities of everyone involved, is both to respect my ex-husband’s privacy and to protect my son, now eight. I don’t want him to worry that people are judging me at the school gate.

Believe me, I know what people think of those who have affairs. Naively, I used to think the same. There’s an assumption that if you cheat on your spouse you are feckless, untrustworthy or oversexed, that you simply ‘can’t keep it in your pants’.

While these lazy stereotypes may be true for some – serial adulterers do exist – they rarely tell the whole story. And they certainly do not describe me.

Sometimes, people have affairs because they are deeply unhappy, and their partner simply can’t – or won’t – address the issues in their relationship. Sometimes, an affair really is the only way out.

Cheating did not come naturally to me. I was almost 40 when my affair began, and until the moment of my first kiss with Robbie, I had never dreamt I would become an adulteress.

I went into my marriage with the belief and the intention that it would last for ever. Even as a teenager, I’d never been unfaithful to any of my boyfriends.

Like most people, I believed that if you wanted to sleep with someone who wasn’t your partner, you should end your relationship first.

But life isn’t always that simple.

In retrospect, my marriage was doomed from the start. Matt was 12 years older than me – he was 40, I was 28 – and had been married before.

He was vague about the reasons for his divorce – blaming his ex’s behaviour – and I was too blinded by love to ask probing questions.

When we met, I was not nearly ready to have children, and the fact he and his first wife had not had any, despite being together for nine years, did not concern me. All I knew was, we got on brilliantly: we had the same interests, the same sense of humour, and he was kind and generous, truly my best friend.

We moved in together three months after meeting, and got married 18 months after that.

But sexually, we were incompatible.

My sex drive was higher than Matt’s and, despite his age, he was less experienced and far less adventurous than me. I kidded myself that it didn’t matter. I loved him, and he was very affectionate; surely in the long term, that was more important than great sex.

Things started to go downhill almost as soon as we were married.

During our honeymoon in Sorrento, Italy, we didn’t make love at all.

It was as if now he had a ring on my finger, he felt he didn’t need to try anymore.

For the next ten years, I soldiered on, becoming increasingly unhappy, as the gaps between intimacy grew ever longer. Within five years, we were in what counsellors call a sexless marriage: we had sex only a handful of times a year, always at my instigation.

We tried both relationship counselling and sex therapy, but they didn’t have any effect.

By now, I was in my mid-30s and starting desperately to want a family.

Matt knew how I felt; I couldn’t hide it. Whenever yet another friend called to tell us their happy baby news, I would congratulate them, then put the phone down, burst into tears and sink into a depression that lasted days.

And while he never actually said he didn’t want a baby, it was plain in his actions.

I came off the pill and, after that, if we ever did have sex, he’d insist on using a condom.

Of course, I didn’t stay silent. I asked him outright when he would be ready to start trying to conceive – but he’d always put me off, saying the timing wasn’t right. That we couldn’t afford it; that it would happen at some point in the future.

For a long time, I believed his excuses. He kept me sweet by indulging my ruminations on perfect baby names, and I reminded myself how brilliant he was with other people’s children. I was sure he’d make a great dad.

It only dawned on me much later that the reason he was so good with kids was that he was still a big kid himself. He simply didn’t want the responsibility of providing for one of his own.

He had been lying to me and, perhaps, also to himself, all along.

As my 40th birthday loomed ever nearer, and my biological clock became a deafening drum, I began to obsess about having a baby.

I’m ashamed to say I was envious of people who had miscarriages because at least they’d had the chance to get pregnant. I wasn’t even being allowed to try.

Concerned close friends began tosuggest that I end my marriage. But I didn’t want to walk away. I wasn’t a quitter – I thought you should work on your issues not run away from them, and I still had hope that things would change.

Besides, I still loved Matt, and leaving him was hardly the way to get pregnant. I didn’t think there was any chance that at my age I’d meet another man and have children before it was too late.

Outside the bedroom, Matt and I still got on famously. Why throw away a marriage to my best friend just to be single and childless?

What I couldn’t say out loud was that I didn’t think any man would want me. The constant sexual rejection had left me with no confidence in my appearance or my sexual prowess, and feeling as though something must be terribly wrong with me. Matt had made me believe I was undeserving of physical love or a baby.

My coping mechanism was to throw myself into work running my small business, which often took me abroad. I jumped at every opportunity to travel and stayed away for as long as possible. During these trips, I felt like a more confident, more attractive version of myself, someone who was in control of my life.

Men paid me attention and compliments, and I started to imagine what it might be like to have a sexual relationship again.

One of my clients was based in Dublin, so I visited the city every few months, staying for a week or two. We became friendly and, one night, over a couple of drinks, I confided in her about my unhappy marriage.

On my next trip, she mentioneda colleague of hers, with whom she thought I’d get along, and offered to introduce me. His name was Robbie – a tall, dark Irishman with twinkly eyes and an irresistible accent.

I was instantly smitten.

Two years my junior, he worked as a caterer and was single after splitting from his long-term girlfriend six months before.

That first evening, we met at eight, and were still talking at 1am, long after my colleague had left. I was honest with him about my marital status – I still wore my wedding ring – and the problems in my marriage, and he was understanding.

The next evening, we met up again, and the chemistry between us was palpable. I remember standing at the bar, barely listening to what he was saying, because all I could think was, ‘please kiss me’.

It felt like I’d climbed on to a rollercoaster that I was powerless to stop.

At the end of the night, he walked me back to my hotel room and we kissed passionately in the corridor, stirring sensations within me that I hadn’t felt for a decade.

Then he asked if he could come in, and, nervously, but enthusiastically, I agreed.

What happened next was, by this point, an inevitability. Strangely though, sleeping with him didn’t feel like cheating.

Matt and I hadn’t been intimate for a whole year. As sex wasn’t part of my marriage, as my husband didn’t want my body, sharing it with someone else didn’t seem wrong.

Over the next few months, we kept in touch by text and got together in Dublin whenever we could. A couple of times, he travelled to London and I met him in a hotel.

While these trysts were exciting and passionate, I didn’t like sneaking around.

Neither did I get off on the danger of being caught.

The truth was, I didn’t yet have the courage to tell my husband, but instead justified the deception to myself as ‘not telling him everything’ rather than blatantly lying.

Mere semantics, I know.

Psychologically, I dealt with it by splitting into two people: the me I was with Matt at home, and the me I was with Robbie.

It was only when Robbie sent me a text saying, ‘I’m falling in love with you’, that I finally acknowledged to myself that I was having an affair. I realised I felt the same – and knew I was a cheat.

Robbie’s message came through while I was sitting watching TV in the living room with Matt. He, of course, had no idea I was furtively texting my lover, hiding it in plain sight. For me, it was the emotional infidelity, not the physical, that made the affair transgressive.

When Robbie first told me he wanted a family with me, I didn’t believe him. It sounded too much like a line.

But his persistence and patience – he said he would wait for me – proved he was genuine. How, when he was offering everything I had dreamed of for so long, could I walk away?

And so, a year after we met, I returned home from a trip to Dublin and asked Matt for a divorce.

Despite my emotional detachment and my frequent absences, Matt was in denial and hadn’t seen it coming.

He was devastated, more so when he learned of my affair.

I hated hurting him – I genuinely still had a lot of love for him – and I fooled myself that he’d realise splitting was for the best because we wanted different things. I even hoped we could find a way to stay friends in the long-term.

Instead – understandably, perhaps – his love turned to hatred, which he channelled into a bitter and long divorce, fighting me at every turn.

During that period, Robbie and I continued to travel back and forth to see each other and, knowing there was no time to waste, we also started trying for a baby.

I got pregnant quickly, but suffered several miscarriages, which were horrible and traumatic, more so because I had to deal with them alone. At least I knew that I could conceive.

When, after a nasty court battle, the divorce was finalised, Robbie kept his promise and moved to London to live with me.

Matt has never spoken to me again.

A year later, Robbie and I got married. And finally, a year after that, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

The moment I held my son in my arms, I knew that it had all been worth it. He was meant to be.

The thought that he might never have existed, had I not cheated, was impossible to compute. And so, I cannot regret a second of what happened, even if it was morally wrong.

I love him more than I have ever loved anyone, more than Robbie – and that is as it should be.

Telling my story isn’t about justifying my affair, merely explaining it.

You may judge me – it’s your right – but let me ask this: should I have sacrificed my chance to be a mother, my long-term happiness, for my ex-husband’s?

In an ideal world, I would, of course, have left him before starting a relationship with another man. But the circumstances were far from ideal. I couldn’t afford the delay.

What’s more, I’m almost certain that if I hadn’t met Robbie, Matt would have talked me into staying.

Painful as it is to accept, my experience shows that anyone can cheat, given the right – or wrong – circumstances.

We all see ourselves as virtuous people, and nobody wants to think their partner might be unfaithful. It’s far easier to condemn others for cheating than to confront our own potential to stray.

And yet my relationship with Robbie has also confirmed my innate loyalty, paradoxical as that sounds. In the ten years since I left Matt for him, I haven’t so much as glanced at another man. I only have eyes for him — and for my son.

Names and details have been changed.