I met my wife a few years ago and we got married last year. She also had a daughter who is in college and was from a previous relationship about 20 years ago.
My wife’s ex was very abusive and she literally had to run away from him with her daughter and ever since then the two of them had a really good mother-daughter relationship like they are best friends for life. I also thought she was a great person and the three of us hang out quite often as a family.
But since our marriage, my wife seemed to have lost her libido and so I have been frustrated sexually in the relationship.
Then I happened to find out that her daughter also had feelings for me and I ended up succumbing to those feelings. I made excuses about attending a business conference when in reality I spent the weekend with her daughter.
I regret cheating and doing it with the one person my wife trusted the most. But I also can’t take what I did back and I know revealing the truth would destroy my wife.
Her daughter also wouldn’t want to hurt her mother so we have agreed to keep it a secret and came up with rules to keep our infidelity hidden so it is unlikely my wife would ever find out.
I did feel really bad at first but I can’t confess the truth nor let this destroy me mentally as that would break our family and especially my wife. As long as no one finds out, all of us will live as we have before and that is just how I will have to justify my situation.
Alright, let’s cut through the noise.
You didn’t just screw up. You detonated a nuclear bomb in the middle of your marriage, your family, and your integrity—and now you’re standing in the fallout pretending it’s a little smoke from a campfire.
Let me be clear: you betrayed your wife in the deepest way imaginable.
Not just sexually. You violated trust. Her trust. Her daughter’s trust. The sacred safety of a home she rebuilt after abuse. And instead of owning that devastation, you’re out here rationalizing the fallout like a lawyer trying to plead down a murder charge to a speeding ticket.
Let’s talk about your justifications.
“She lost her libido and I was frustrated.”
That’s not an excuse. That’s a conversation. A counseling session. A season of patience, sacrifice, and working together. You didn’t have a sexual frustration problem—you had a character problem. And when things got hard, instead of choosing courage, you chose cowardice.
“Her daughter had feelings for me.”
So what? You’re the adult. You’re the husband. You’re the protector. You’re the one who says, “I love your mom and this is inappropriate, and I care enough about both of you to put a wall up and never let this go any further.” Instead, you blew past every boundary and let it happen. That’s not weakness. That’s a decision.
“We agreed to keep it a secret so my wife won’t get hurt.”
Let me break this illusion for you: she’s already hurt. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Every day you lie to her face, pretend things are fine, and go about your life like nothing happened—you are deepening the wound. You are choosing your comfort over her dignity. You are choosing self-preservation over truth.
And don’t talk to me about mental anguish or protecting the family. That’s not what this is. You’re not protecting anyone. You’re protecting your image. You’re trying to avoid the natural consequences of your choices—and you’re dragging two women down into the mud to do it.
So what now?
You tell the truth.
You come clean. All of it. You look your wife in the eye and you take full ownership. Not to relieve your guilt. Not to shift blame. But because she deserves to know the truth about the man she married and the people in her home.
And then? You accept the consequences. You let the chips fall. You do the work. You go to therapy. You sit in the wreckage and start rebuilding—not your marriage, maybe, but your soul.
You don’t get to have peace while living a lie.
You don’t get to talk about love while burying the truth.
You don’t get to rewrite reality just because the truth is uncomfortable.
The only way forward—the only way—is honesty, accountability, and repentance.
You say you regret it. Prove it.
Because right now? You’re not a victim. You’re not a confused man caught in a moment of weakness.
You’re the villain in the story.
But you don’t have to stay that way.