An open letter to his wife: I think we’d make good friends

Below is reader TSD’s account of being the other woman, and realising that she had more similarities with his wife than she expected.

I know you…with your sleek ponytail and French tip nails. I’m well versed on the ins and outs of the life you share with the man I love. I know the ages of your kids, and your birthday is pencilled on my calendar as a bitter reminder that you will always be first. I’ve been the uninvited guest in your home, peeking from room to room and catching glimpses of you in every corner. And although your taste in home décor is far too shabby chic for my aloft, perhaps minimalist style, I can still appreciate your efforts. But contrary to knowing all these intimate details about you, we’ve never met or even been formally introduced. You see, I know because I made it my duty to know. The moment I willingly gave myself to your husband, I knew this would be an unwelcome threesome, with your presence lurking somewhere in the background. Some days I despise you. Days when my ears are assaulted with gripes and complaints about you — how critical you get and how unappreciative you are. His lurid accusations would turn you into a dream crusher, a life zapper, the source of his discontent. I would silently hate you for putting him down, for recklessly thrusting your man into the arms of someone else, for not loving him the way he deserves to be loved.There are days when I envy you, when I wish we could trade places, so I could nonchalantly drive around in that luxury car of yours and pretend the rock you brandish so carelessly was mine. Days when I imagine myself in that two-storey house, cooking his meals and kissing him goodnight. You get the holidays, the special occasions and family vacations while I settle for Netflix and chill on the way from work. Worst of all, you get the sick days when he’s most vulnerable and you get to nurse him back to life with your canned soups and over-the-counter meds.Sometimes I touch my stomach and pretend I’m carrying his child. I even looked up baby names in sheer desperation so I could imagine, for a moment, how it might feel to be completely his. And once in awhile I feel sorry for you. I can almost imagine the lingering uncertainty when you whisper, “Daddy’s still at work,” and the exhaustion in your smile when you tuck them in alone. I wonder what it feels like to be you, to live your lie.I think about your children and I wonder how my actions affect them. Do you spend hours thinking about where he is and who he’s with when you’re helping them with homework? Do you ever think about me? On days like this, frustration, shame and guilt gnaw slowly at my conscience, reminding me of what I’ve become: the adulterer, the homewrecker, the reason behind the unanswered phone calls and the “late night meetings”.But what I’ve come to realise, despite your “preferential status” and the ugly labels aimed in my general direction, is that we’re not as different as you think. We’re expert players in this game of pretend, hiding our dissatisfaction with forced smiles and a brave mask. We know the bitter sting of inadequacy, and are all too familiar with that quiet voice telling us we deserve more.We’re both in love with the same manIn these silent musings, I see myself in you. Our similarities become so parallel that you’re as familiar as an old friend, and I can almost picture us spilling the beans of secret insecurities, past hurts and unexpressed fears between sips of mocha frappés.I’m not sure if this is my way of apologising, or a desperate attempt to right my own wrong, but I have no ill will or hidden agenda towards you. And while it would be simpler for me to walk away, what binds us together, besides our mutual love, is this idea that eventually one of us will be enough to make him happy. But who says there has to be a choice? Who says we can’t agree to disagree with the status quo? I know it may not be an ideal situation, but for the sake of both our lives, would it be so difficult to live and let live?Hopefully one day you’ll see it through my eyes and we can finally put this all behind us. Or on some cosmic level we can even be friends (?). Whatever the case, I’d still be open to coffee.